


the seeing and the sound

by sybilius



Series: count to ten and run for cover [3]
Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Assassins & Hitmen, Catholicism, Consequences for your Fucking Actions, Emotional Communication, Friendship, Letters, M/M, Mexico, Multi, Paranoia, Pining, Polyamory, Protestant Catholic Guilt, Reconciliation, Sadness, Trauma, Vacations, but then things get better, literally this is talk therapy the fic so you know, that's what it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23046433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: 1975. After two hundred thousand, a gun, and a noose -- who's left standing? What the hell did they tear through all those miles to gain?Angel Eyes will be damned if he's not getting those answers, at least.
Relationships: Angel Eyes/"Blondie" | The Man with No Name, Angel Eyes/Tuco Ramirez
Series: count to ten and run for cover [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1289720
Comments: 12
Kudos: 12





	1. splinters

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this fic in me a long time. I've tried to write it for many ships.
> 
> I shouldn't be surprised, after all, that Blondeyes were the ship that got it. They've always brought out the best in me.

The dull axe comes down hard on the juniper wood. Each stroke misses the last mark without fail, splinters flying on to the mulch littered earth by the gatehouse. 

The morning chill whips along my cheeks, skin numb already. The rest isn't coming. 

I take the partially rent log in my bare hands, tearing what little wood holds it together. The pieces would make poor kindling. 

I hit it with the axe again. 

Again, the words come back; what could I possibly have said to have him stay? To go with him? 

Another stroke, the bark falling off of the oak log. 

Nothing, it was all so far out of my hands, so tied up in the ones on the rope. 

The only thing I could have done is stayed my hand. 

So I did. So I have done. 

My hands grow slick, the strikes getting worse. In my mind, I flip through annals of literature, gospels and philosophical treatises alike. Did I not wish, in all my ignorant voyeurism of the lives of those not signed and sold from one Faustian organization to the next-- did I not  _ wish _ fondly, naively, to understand the true meaning of anguish?

The axe beats like metal on flesh and bone. Like missed gunshots. 

I wouldn't take back the understanding; but I would take back all that and so much more if it meant the act, the act-- 

“God above, Angel-- what are you--?” 

I stop, breathing hard.

I didn't even hear him coming. And he ran. I'm fairly certain. That echo after the last fall of the axe. 

His words register, my eyes still fixed on the blade. Taking the name in vain while dressed as the damnable hypocrite he is? I must look a mess; for him to so carelessly besmirch the purity-fucked white robes in his mind's eye without a martyr's posturing. 

“You should let me do that.” 

I remember he always had before. The more reason to be out here. 

I steel myself to look up. Same monastic grey, keeping up appearances. Of course. The worst part is the memory that rises up, looking at the dark shadows under his brown hair that's grown out beyond his name. 

Hadn't I thought to myself, when I'd first brought him to the hacienda to dine with me; how much damage could a man that exhausted possibly cause? 

“You truly are the damnation I deserve,” there's a waver in my voice, a line from Dante I can't quite reach for. No. No amount of poetry could save us from  _ this.  _

His lips draw tight. No denial. 

The silence of the graves stretches between us, would that I could find comfort in it again. But that makes it easier to break it -- shatter like a fallen pipe, those pieces that end up nowhere but gutter trash -- 

“Brannigan. He -- he took you to that godawful film because it was John Wayne, because he knew you would--” my own voice falters and breaks, utterly foreign, “How can you even look at yourself?” 

I look at him then, the flinch passing hard over his features. He swallows, still hiding whatever twisted emotions are warping behind those damnably clear eyes. They were plain on his face last night on the alleyway. 

All men look the same, confronted with death. I never understood the colleagues that found art in that. I suck in breath through my teeth, the cold bracing me somewhere beneath my ribcage,  _ gracias a dio--  _

“Listen -- I -- I said I'd go at Easter, I'll--”

“No.” 

It's the first calm syllable I've uttered since the night before. I step into his space, place my hands on either side of his face. There's blood on them, I'm noticing now, parts of bark that catch on his stubble.

To be tempted by violence as emotional release is not uncommon in my profession -- yet. It's never something I'd experienced before.

It would be so easy to snap his neck from this position. He knows this as well as I, doesn't move. 

“If you're to demand I let you live for his sake; then you  _ damn _ well better live for his sake, and do everything in your power to earn a forgiveness you will never come to deserve. That's the least you could do after what you did.”

It's difficult not to spit the last words, the memory of that scene still reflecting in my mind's eye, back in his eyes. I'm dimly surprised, in back of mind, that touching him doesn't send a shiver of disgust through me.  _ Non si tosto si fa un tempio a Dio come il diavolo ci fabrica una capella appresso. _

I believed I knew that before. I certainly know it now. 

“As for me. You come to me. I'll be here. Morning and evening. Don't think I don't know -- I deserve this just the same,” I drop my hands, the repulsion finally coming through. 

“Angel --” 

“Get out. Go choke on your prayers and platitudes,” there is a horrible, violent satisfaction in seeing him flinch at the word 'choke’, “And I best see you here tonight.” 

I manage to keep my composure as I cross the yard to the gatehouse door. My palms are feeling the sting of the splinters by now. I close the door -- slowly; carefully. 

This is some variation on pathetic. Have I been so long from my natural talents at diplomacy, violence, that this simple act is so exhausting? 

(No. Even in my thoughts I shouldn't allow myself such maudlin self pity. Not after what Tuco went through. Not given that this is what Blondie is no doubt wallowing in; any excuse for self blame to avoid the truth of the violence he's just done.

I know, if I'm to be honest, that nothing I've said or done could possibly have prepared me for this.)

The temptation to collapse on the couch as Tuco did the first time he'd come to this home rears up in my chest. No-- first I need to tend to my hands. I run the water too hot at first for their marble numbness. Broken habits -- I remember Tuco telling me the once, tying his hands to his pack. I remember when he broke that one. 

I test the water, the sound distant to the roar in my ears. 

I'm grateful, even still, that he had the bag with him. That he was safe and yet -- still could keep himself as such. Though if I had acted sooner -- not let him get as far as the empty gunshots-- 

I pull my hand back, the numbness finally falling away to reveal the cold. Adjust the faucets. Pick off the more visible pieces of bark. 

That was stupid, little rabbit, Alma would have said. 

They're not bleeding that much. 

I pull the gloves tossed carelessly on the counter back on. Wishing I could say they made me feel more myself. I finally succumb to the temptation to sit down hard on the crushed velvet sofa, pinch my temple with the soft leather. 

My mentor, opposite me in my mind's eye in a wooden rocking chair. Chiding me for not watching the entrance. I pull myself up, exhausted. Settle into the cushions, forcing myself to look at the empty space.

Where Tuco should be. 

Where, in another life perhaps, Alma could have grown old. 

If nothing else we lived apart and untouched by the senseless violences of this world. Many of which we enacted. I used to point this out to her -- in philosophical terms, rather. She'd just shake her head and said to focus on the soup, the gunsight, the present perfect conjugation. 

The best one could say about that kind of detachment was that it kept us alive, to continue at our craft. And even that smacks of the inward gluttony of objectivism. The worst; that it enabled great evil in the world; as every moral philosopher agreed, we were and are monstrous. Even after death. 

In the middle; something different. Perhaps beyond philosophy, I don't know even now. 

It's that middle-- that makes me wonder if she would have been happy here. For what little happy meant for her. 

I tilt my head back, taking in the rafters. Realizing the ultimatum I've just given. The best option -- perhaps morally as well. Yet still-- 

I think -- perhaps -- emotional release would be normally accomplished by crying. 

But I don't believe Alma could have cried either. 


	2. rosaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the start, Blondie is praying a rosary in Latin.

_ This was not a bridge you burned. _

“ _ Áve María, grátia pléna, Dóminus técum; benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus frúctus véntris túi, Jésus _ .”

_ This was not a gun you shot.  _

_ “Sáncta María, Máter Déi, óra pro nóbis peccatóribus, nunc et in hóra mórtis nóstræ.” _

Tuco had shot the gun, he’d -- 

“ _ Amen.” _

Even on his knees, it’s hard to keep steady. 

“ _ Áve María, grátia pléna, Dóminus técum; benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus frúctus véntris túi, Jésus _ .”

_ This was not a scene you set.  _

The cheap plastic beads slip under his shaking hands. Blondie opens his eyes -- the sun sharp and damnably bright through the dirty stained glass.

_ No -- you did. How can you even look at yourself? _

The last words come in Angel’s voice. Blondie drops his clasped hands to his lap, crescents from his nails digging into his palm. It’s a wonder they aren’t shining with blood, clear for all to see, staining his cassock. 

_ Even that’s a stupid fucking thing to think.  _

The projector in his mind plays double time; none of it looking ahead to what he could be doing, where he might be next. It’s just the rope, in pornographic technicolor. A neck, straining against the noose.

_ It wasn’t just a neck, it was  _ his  _ and he  _ shot _ you, and -- _

_ This wasn’t how it should have turned out. It was supposed to be you, miles away from the monastery. Tuco, safe in the gatehouse with the poetry he couldn’t stay awake for and the devil who looks at you like he’s the only one who can deliver the judgement you deserve --  _

_ Is he wrong, though?  _

He staggers to his feet, the first time he’s left a rosary in months. Wondering how that scene could possibly have looked plausible; how any of this could have brought him back here on Joseph’s knees, in the cold stone of this sanctity he’d tainted for years before he took to the road. 

_ Took to the road with  _ him _. _

He ducks into an alcove, hearing one of the other monks passing by the entrance to the chapel. The draft that whistles between the rock makes him want to slump to the floor. 

How he managed to hustle Angel into seeing  _ Brannigan  _ with him a second time is as dim in his mind as how he’s alive at all. He forces his thoughts back, remembering how stilted and miles away Angel had been in the theatre. None of the nervy look about him that Blondie remembers from the time they’d seen  _ The Godfather _ .

That seems like decades ago. 

He slept through the early morning Maundy Thursday mass-- and the blood on Angel’s hands this morning, desecrating the wood -- he runs a hand along his beard. Angel's blood is stuck there, crumbling black sand. That's not whose blood is on his hands. 

_ You should be dead. You should be in a jail cell. You should be tying your own damn noose-- _

Blondie turns back to the altar. Kneels again. Finds the first bead of the ten he’d dropped. His tongue is heavy on the  _ Áve María _ . He drops the bead, hands settling on the cross. Begin again, humble yourself before God,  _ god _ \--

“ _ Crédo in Déum, Pátrem omnipoténtem, Creatórem cáeli et térræ. Et in Jésum Chrístum, Fílium éjus unícum, Dóminum nóstrum, qui concéptus est de Spíritu Sáncto... _ ”

He forces himself to restart twice more before he makes it through the entire prayer. The beads are slick in his hands when he shoves the rosary back into his pocket. When he finally pulls himself upwards, there’s someone in the chapel he hadn’t noticed. 

“Contemplating the passion this Maundy Thursday?” the gentleness in Pablo’s question spells damnation in its every word.

_ You don’t deserve to even look him in the eye-- for what you did to his brother.  _

“I slept through mass,” is all he manages to confess. Short, hard -- Pablo should leave him to his piss-poor rosaries. 

“Joseph -- I understand my brother’s disappearance may be all very difficult for you--” 

\--  _ Jesus fucking christ, anything but this --  _

“Should you need guidance, I --”

“It’s my fault.”

_ You can’t say any more than that, can you? _

Pablo blinks, frowning to himself. At first, disbelief, but then whatever denials and apologetics for his own brother stop at his eyes. There’s a measure of relief in that. It steadies Blondie by inches. 

“Seek confession then -- should you feel the mark of sin on you,” Pablo says it softly. The draft sweeps its way through the empty chapel. 

_ What you did can’t be confessed. It can’t be taken away from you, or him. What you did --  _

“I can’t.”   


The line on Pablo’s forehead deepends, “I understand if you wouldn’t be able to express it to myself, but there are other priests-- none of them free of sin--”

_ Fuck _ ,  _ you’re one of them now, you’ve always been -- _

_ Stop.  _

That’s in Angel’s voice too-- or is it Tuco’s? All this goddamn melodrama-- and for what? Blondie shakes his head once, “It’ll be done before mass.”

_ For whatever done means to you now. _

He pushes past Pablo’s concern, that’s far worse than the accusation. The grounds are empty, all the monks retreated for prayer for the moment. It’s springtime. 

His leg hurts again. He should get that looked at. He should confess, he should-- god above, none of that is changing any of this. 

Angel’s demand this morning -- _live for his sake_ \-- echoes before he goes too far along that line of thinking _._ Tuco would have wanted that. Maybe still does, for _fuck_ ’s sake. He doesn’t allow the word _forgiveness_ to cross his mind.

At least, at the infirmary, Wallace keeps to mostly silence, strips and cleans the mostly healed wound. Just an old ache, really. Don’t work it too hard. There’s pity in his eyes too-- they all think he’s so damn clean.

_ You always were good at the hustle, huh Blondie? _

Evening comes at last. The lantern that hangs by the gatehouse waits for him, as he crosses the grounds that turn greener by the day. Everything smelling of earthen newness. The huckleberries are starting to flower-- sooner or later they’ll ripen with berries that Tuco will never snatch by the handful again. 

Blondie chokes back his nausea. Knocks at the door with a shaking hand. 

“Come in.”

Angel Eyes is dressed in clean black, having changed out of the grey shirt he’d stained with dirt this morning. He looks up from his work, spooning himself a bowl of something that smells of rich onion. 

“Do you want soup?” his words are clipped, formal. Blondie almost turns back right then. 

“Sure.”

His eyes are damn cold when he sets down the spoon, “No. You don’t. You have never  _ once _ wanted soup when I offered it to you, and if you can’t be honest about that you might as well get the hell out now.”

The words are like the stroke of the axe, this morning. Blondie swallows a throat full of splinters. 

“Okay. I don’t want soup,” it’s then he notices a plate of chicken and potatoes on the counter, next to the soup. Angel stares at him pointedly, and he takes it, sitting down across from him at the table. He’s not sure what he expected.

He didn’t expect to be hungry, though he hasn’t eaten all day. The chicken is heavy in his mouth, but he gets it down. Angel watches him with a kind of measure he hasn’t seen since the first six months they were together, taking the soup spoonful by spoonful without looking down. 

It’s all clinking of cutlery and the occasional snap of wood from the fire. 

Just as Blondie is wondering if he’s failed another test of Angel’s, saying nothing -- Angel puts down his spoon, stands up. 

“Here are my terms, in case they weren't clear this morning,” Angel's voice is that liquid calm he has sometimes. Blondie remembers it most vividly from when he was negotiating with the man who took away the body. 

“Morning and night. You come to see me. I ask questions. You answer them honestly or not at all. And Blondie, look at me,” Angel says so seriously that Blondie forces his gaze up. Those same eyes that looked at him like so much meat and bones on the wet concrete of the alley, matched by the barrel of a gun. 

“If you can't answer, if you don't know, I want to know that too. Then you can go.” 

He nods carefully, the words ringing in his ears like sanctuary bells, “All right.”

Angel gestures towards the fire, the corner seat that he’d once taken with Tuco asleep beside him. He’d sat on the floor then. Blondie freezes, neither wanting to sit where Tuco did, nor to take up on the floor either. Angel stares at him a moment, taking up in that cushion-laden rocking chair he favors. Blondie pulls over a chair from the dining table. 

Though it doesn’t change his face any-- Blondie can see in Angel’s gaze that at least he hasn’t made a misstep there. 

“First question. You said when we left on that road trip-- that you’d been lying to me since we met, in a sense. More so -- you’d said that was for Tuco’s sake alone. That you wanted to see him taken care of. Did you mean that?”

That question almost hurts. He’d been trying then, trying so damn hard to say what he meant. And Angel didn’t even believe that. Blondie nods. 

“You asked about the one thing I wasn’t lying about.”

“I want to hear you say it. I need to be sure,” again, no emotion in it. Blondie swallows the strangeness but -- easier than speaking to Pablo. Easier even, than rosaries. 

“Course I did. Why would I admit to something like that?” 

Angel opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, “I’m not offering opinions on your actions. Not tonight.”

“Whatever you’re thinking --”

“Next question. If you admitted to that lie, why keep up the facade that you were a killer?” 

The denial dies in Blondie’s throat. He resists the urge to run his fingers over where fabric covers the bullet-wound in his thigh, as he’s done many times since hot-wiring that van, taking Tuco away from all that blood and leaving Angel in the thick of it. 

“I thought -- Baker said that Rose was interested in me. Said I needed to kill, and he needed to know about it. So he’d have something on me. He -- he,” Blondie has to take a moment then, god he’d never noticed how damn terrifying the whole scene had been, “He said I should kill Tuco.”

“Here I was feeling a measure of regret that Baker was caught in the middle of that mess,” Angel says it dryly, “And you didn’t think to share this information with me? This isn’t answering my question.”

He’s right about that. Blondie winces, trying to think over how he felt then. 

“I was afraid -- that it’d all come back on me, that someone would get hurt because I was lying,” he’d hoped to god he’d never have to say this, but goddamn if there weren’t worse things he could say now.

“I wasn’t who you believed I was. I ---couldn’t -- I didn’t want to lose you, or get Tuco hurt. I figured -- if I kept the attention off him, just did the job this once--”

“It’s never just  _ once _ , Blondie,” Angel snaps, the first flash of anything across his face since Blondie has entered. Then he sits back, reaching for his pipe with regret on his face, “Forgive me. That was careless.”

Blondie gestures helplessly. He can’t be forgiven, no point saying it or offering it. 

“So that's it. Aren't you going to tell me I'm a coward?” 

“I don't offer my judgement unless there's a mutual respect established -- I've been fooling myself that we had one ever since I came here,” Angel strikes a match with schooled indifference, his black gloves catching the warm light. 

Blondie stares at the crescents in his palm again, “Listen. I-- I do think about what you say to me. That’s why I came.” 

Angel doesn’t say anything to that, just studies him for a long moment. His eyes sharpen and blur behind the smoke. Blondie counts, like rosary beads, like breaths of a sleeping hustler on the roadside, the seconds before he speaks again. 

“When you left me, after those six months,” Angel pauses a moment, his lips white on the pipe, “You said he needed you. What, exactly, was it he needed you for? Why did he need you?”

Blondie turns to the fire, not able to meet Angel’s gaze. Watching the way the wood jostles under the own weight of its burning. Wondering if time and betrayal would ever burn out a loyalty like this one. At worst, this is the only thing he can still do, for Tuco. 

“I'd take that to the grave if he asked me to.” 

“Did he ask you to?”

He looks back to Angel, the thickness in his throat back in earnest, “No.” 

“Your point is made though. I'll save that question should-- should I ever get the chance to ask him,” even Angel has to look away then, stealing glances to the crocheted black blanket, folded neatly in the corner of the couch. The tobacco hits Blondie and he has a sudden, vicious craving for a cigarillo. Followed immediately by a wave of nostalgia, nausea-- all that’s caught up in that sensation--

“Last question. Then you should go,” Angel breathes out, his veneer intact again. Blondie hears the chair creak, Angel leaning forward. 

“Why did you do it?” 

Simple. 

Five-syllable question, everything Blondie expected, everything he deserved, how the  _ hell _ did it all come to this after all those miles looking out for him, keeping him alive and then he’d ran with Blondie’s death-threat bruising his neck-- 

Blondie swallows nausea hard again. This is what he came for, wasn’t it? 

Neither voice, his mind’s Tuco nor Angel Eyes, nor the man who waits for an answer, sees fit to say a word. 

“I don't --” Blondie stops himself. That’s not a lie, but -- it’s not true at all, either. Not in the least. 

“I can't say it. Not-- now.”

The silence that follows is what he should have expected, though he wishes its hollowness was swept up with rage, with cruel words, with something equally senseless. Nothing. He looks up slowly. Angel’s face betrays nothing. 

Angel nods once, “I’ll ask you the same tomorrow. So that you’re ready. You can refuse then too, if you have to.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and nods once.

“You should go,” Angel has turned his stare to the fire now, and Blondie can just about make out out shake in the hand that holds the pipe, “Be back tomorrow.”

Blondie stands, half in a daze-- but before reaching for the door-handle, remembers all the time he’s let silence speak for him before. Hell, all the times it’s failed him. 

“I will.”


	3. confessions

I have always had, if nothing else, an excellent sense of my own limits. 

Physical-- I can near-sprint for six hundred yards before collapsing, a third of that with a bullet above the legs. Adrenaline keeps most of my hand-to-hand responses crisp even if I’ve taken a shallow stab wound. I know what losing close to a critical thirty percent of blood feels like. 

Mental-- I require six and a half hours of sleep to function at full capacity, normally taken in two or three segments during the day. I can pick up a romance-based language and its dialects easily, but any language I struggle with quickly deteriorates my sense of diplomacy. 

Emotional-- rarely relevant. 

I force myself to lift my head. Why I bothered to attempt sleep in the cavernously empty bed overnight-- it’s not as if I’d had much luck sleeping nights before. Or now. 

It's midday, by the look of the window.

It’s not as if I have anything better to do. 

I'd recognized the signs of hitting limits when Blondie had come to breakfast yesterday morning, offered nothing but a wan apology, no answers now. I'd been relieved, had just barely managed to keep that off my face. 

I hadn't left the house that afternoon, not even to circle the grounds in case of visitors. It felt unsafe to. That was inexplicable. 

_ Chi affoga s'attaccherrebbe alle funi del cielo _ . 

Then he came in the evening, confessed to everything. 

Emotional -- a blind spot. 

I'd had to tell him, no inflection, this morning, to come back in the evening. I didn't bother to see how he took it. 

To be beside oneself is a phrase traced back to the early translations of Virgil. It appeared around the same time as the idiom ‘to be out of one’s mind’. _ Ya valí madre _ . I wish I could crawl out of my fucking skin.The phrase came from the idea that in times of intense stress, the soul would exit the body. Though I can't say I've ever put any stock in the idea of a soul, it isn't till I've crossed most of the priory grounds that I'd start to feel the chill spring air on my cheeks. I watch myself pull the door to the chapel, stride across the threadbare carpets to the wooden confessional. 

Small mercies: none of the other priests are waiting. I pull the thin velvet curtain shut sharply, taking a seat. The gloves I have on have a strap by the wrist, to pull them close to the skin. I tighten it, just to feel my pulse throb. 

Nervous ticks. Most people in the profession have a few, small tells that rear up when fear gets them by the throat. I'm not immune, but mine are deliberate. Difficult to read. 

I'd shot a man once, in a box like this. He was very devout -- easy to track his regular movements. 

The man on the other side of the screen shifts. I remember distantly that the penitent is to speak first.  _ A diabolo, qui est simia dei. _

“I'm not here to ask for your blessing, Father. Nor to belabor you with my sins.”

A pause. Father Paul's tenor answers, “Considering you aren't yourself Catholic-- it wouldn't be considered confession even if you had come here for that.”

“I was baptized as such. But you're right that I would never lay claim to religion. That much I would swear, to any god you'd like,” I say it with the gravitas it deserves, at least. 

“So. What have you come for?” 

“I have a question. A theological one if you would.” 

“We can have this conversation in my office if you would prefer.”

“I would not,” I say it too sharply-- all the more reason to insist on it. I don't want my face read. Not by a priest, not least of all by this one. 

“As you will then.” 

“Tell me. What is the purpose of confession?” I can hear the perfect evenness in my voice even as the memory of the evening before rears up in my throat. 

Blondie sat opposite me under the yellow incandescent light of the gatehouse lamps. Leaning forward, sunken shadows under his eyes, back hunched. I distantly remember taking some bitter satisfaction from his exhaustion, equal to my own. 

_ Acerrima proximorum odia _ . That should have been a warning. 

But by then it was too late. He'd begun his confession. 

_ “First thing I thought was-- that you were right. That if I ran out without saying anything to Tuco, he'd go after me. Unless I did something about it,” he'd grimaced, “If that sounds like I'm blaming you for this shit-- believe me I know this is all on me. I just. That was where it started.”  _

It hadn't been painful at the time, to hear that. I'd taken it with the same kind of numb serenity I’d learned from my mentor. Now, thinking on what he’d said-- well. It is its own quiet agony of might-have-beens. 

The mouthpiece of the so-called god clears his throat on the other side of the grille. 

“Well. First, and foremost confession serves to cleanse the soul and bring one sufficiently close to the Lord in order to receive his Word.” 

I have a strange, distinct craving for tobacco. Perhaps specifically for tobacco from a cigarillo. 

“And that's sufficient for absolution? Simply to say it aloud?” 

Is this as revealing as it sounds? No, it can't possibly be. 

“The admission is itself powerful. True confession implies penitence for the deed. Penitence for debasing God's will with sin,” there's a wry smile in his voice, “Of course, God has full awareness of your sin at all times. But to confess is to articulate to Him your own awareness-- without fear for the consequence, but with contrition for the act.” 

He pauses. I'm tempted to say something disparaging, but the word  _ act _ is spinning my mind back to Blondie's staccato confession. 

_ “Thing I couldn't say at first -- but I have to. God. It's no secret I've always wanted to do that with him. Have him be the one under the noose. He knew it. But it was never something he could abide by-- I knew why, I guess. Kind of. But after seeing that shit, having to leave,” he sucked in his breath here, before the damning confession came out, “I'd talked myself into thinking he owed me that. It's fucked up, is what it is. I didn't -- I didn't want to look at it.” _

He'd broken off at the last bit, voice ragged. Mumbled something about being not finished yet. I couldn't have replied even if I'd had anything to offer. _ Curae leves loquuntur ingentes stupent. _

I glance back to the grille, realizing I should speak, “I’m surprised you didn't immediately turn to  _ In persona Christi capitis _ . That the purpose would be to receive God’s opinion on the matter, through a priest _. _ ”

“I'm surprised to hear that you're aware of it. Though. You said you were baptized. Benedict did mention you never lied.” 

I can't help the choke of a laugh that comes out then. He thinks so highly of me. Thought. God knows, last Tuco saw me I had a gun to the head of a man we both loved-- 

“Only by omission, Father. Or by refusal.” 

“Then that's part of what I meant,” Father Paul’s voice is grave yet insistent, “Confession denies either of those, gets to the truth. Then, once that sin is laid bare, then we are ready to receive the grace of God.” 

“...I see.” 

There are several points about that statement that raise my hackles. It seems to craft confession as nothing but a pathway to prostrating one’s decisions to another’s judgment, absolution without responsibility. And then, whose responsibility is the grace? 

“Do you find it difficult to speak through that voice?” I ask carefully. 

“Often, yes.” 

There was what Blondie said, before I'd told him with clipped tones he should leave. I wish I'd had any grace to offer for that, or at least-- could have heard it without it being so damn painful. 

_ “Here's the thing -- I knew I was going to throw it all to hell, one way or another. That'd be what I deserved, after the best I could do for Tuco, even though I’d loved him for years, was to give him up to a man with all that blood on his hands. A man I wanted, loved even-- maybe because of that. Mmf, well, not really, but that's not what you asked me about, is it?”  _

At that point I'd been completely stricken. Perhaps I'd been ignoring, up till then, just how knotted up I was in all of this. Or perhaps it was the starkness of what he'd said next. 

_ “No, I did it because I thought I deserved it. All of it. I just,  _ fuck.  _ It all came down on him. Always has done, probably. And I know I'm not ever going to get free of that.” _

Fear, raining hell down on innocence. Was there anything worth disentangling from that fear? What grace could possibly level this kind of violence?

“There are days, good days that I give thanks for, where I feel myself simply an instrument for his Will, and the acts of penitence are easy to provide,” Father Paul states carefully, “And there are days where I am nothing but a man, confused and alarmed and overwhelmed by the sins of other men. By my own sins, on occasion.” 

“What then?” I say, after a beat of silence. 

“When I feel I have failed; at least Confession serves part of its purpose. To remind the listener He is always listening.”

I relax my fingers consciously, one by one. Even through the gloves I suspect the grip may have left a mark on my palm. 

“ _ Consilio, quod respuitur, nullum subest auxilium, _ ” it’s not biblical, but it is fitting. 

_ “ihil ergo nunc damnationis est his qui sunt in Christo Iesu qui non secundum carnem ambulant .”  _

Now, that, I very much doubt-- but it seems time to take my leave. I stand, mutter a brief thanks, and cross the chapel before Father Paul can say a word more. 

But on the walk back to the gatehouse, my eyes travel naturally among the shadows between the trees, staking out where someone could plausibly hide. My consciousness sifts over the weapons I still carry, one handgun, penknife in my pocket. I know my options, if threatened. Whether I give a damn about them is another matter. 

The air smells like spring, earthen and sweet. Part of me resents it but -- better than endless chill and rain. 

That evening, I prepare a cassoulet, rather than a soup, taking time to slice the vegetables precise and even, spreading them around the meat. It's not soothing in the way that cooking can be, but it serves to impose a sense of calm before Blondie's knock. 

The circles under his eyes darken every day. He grimaces, nods when I step aside to let him in. 

“You didn't make soup,” he says once he's sat down. I'd made it for myself these past few nights, set aside something for him. Habit. 

“No.”

He nudges his fork against it once I’ve sat down, takes a few bites. Then surprises me, speaking before I can sort through what needs to be said to him. 

“You know something, you were right. Religion is a hopeless fucking hustle. Like everything else.”

I take a sip of water, “Here today I was considering the opposite. What happened?”

Blondie raises his head slowly, considering the question with some disbelief at its asking, “Went to confess.” 

“Surely not to Father Paul?” I consider mentioning that I had been there earlier but -- instead purse my lips quietly. 

“No, I'm not an idiot. It was to Father Samson. God it was. Stupid,” he pulls out his cigarillos, which surprises me that he still has, lights one. Breathes out the smoke with that careless, weighted indifference that used to so fascinate me. 

If I'm honest, it still does. 

“I told him about everything-- spit it all out and the only damn thing he had to say was to stop committing the sin of Sodom. Jesus Christ. He said-- said that Tuco should repent too, I--” Blondie breaks off, coughs to shield his face, “Yeah.” 

He steals a glance at me, then looks down. I suppose I haven't given him much of a reaction on -- anything since we began this. I suppose that must be its own form of hard to take.

“That is stupid, yes,” I offer, “I'm glad you know that.” 

He stares a moment, “Angel--” 

I scrape up a last bite of white bean and parsley, “Here's a question. Why did you agree to this?”

“God. That's the easiest one yet. Because you were right. I owe it to him. To-- both of you. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but. I know that,” he forces his gaze up, “I know what you're offering. I have to take it.” 

“I barely know what I'm offering,” it slips out before I can bite my tongue on it. The words ripple over Blondie’s face, momentary terror flashing through his eyes. 

This time, when I see it, I gain no satisfaction. Only a tired sense of camaraderie. That can’t be a bad thing, can it?

“Okay. Um. You going to tell me to go?” 

I gesture towards the hearth, leaving our empty plates at the table, “No. No, I'll have you as long as I can.” 

There's many things in that can. As long as I can stand it. As long as he'll let me. As long as I feel as if there's something to trust in this. 

I study him, holding the silence as we take our seats by the fire. 

That offer has its own faith. That much, I suppose. I can take on. 


	4. tea for one

There are names carved into the worn out wood of the table. Some lovers in pairs, some talentless scrawls, at least one smeared pen drawing by someone who likely considers it a gift of theirs. It's a fair rendering, a pair of lilies above a set of two carved initials. 

_Lives fragile as dragonfly wings. Flickering through the endless -- touch slowly, touch softly._

_Maledizione_ _._ It’s neither clever nor subtle-- yet. I hate to admit familiar. I trace the initials, _K.E.+ L.M_ with thin cotton gloves. Cardsharp gloves, from the night he wore that two-color shirt -- one evening we passed together. I raise my head, study the cropped-short hair of the woman breathlessly rhyming off her stanzas. Here, one evening we didn't. 

_I hear a mirror in your mind. Echoes, of another mind. Mine._

Before now, I would have said that was perhaps for the better. And now? I'm wondering where he took his seat (unlikely to be here), whether he partook of the nickel and dime purchases of grocery store baked goods (likely), and whether or not any of the poets he cheekily admitted to thieving lines from are here tonight. 

_Smells of tea, taste of leaves, touch of fire -- and eyes that I have shared._

I wince. _El amor es torpe,_ certainly it's unlikely to be that poet. The boy who takes the microphone next is even worse, free-form, aimless, and utterly convinced that the object of his affections is just that, an object. _Idiota_. 

The poem ends, and even the applause seems strained in this case. I don't bother. 

My fingers tense instinctively near my leg. Someone's approaching. A man dressed in a mismatched suit jacket with a bright yellow shirt, a color that hits me like a pang when I remember my _pareja’s_ choice in wardrobe. 

“Hey,” no, perhaps I’ve misjudged-- her voice is too high for the way she looks. And a tricky accent to identify -- 

“Haven't seen you here before, cowboy,” whoever they are, they keep their voice light, but chilly. Not shy though, sitting down across from me with their tea, taking the measure of my face. 

Good god, surely this isn't someone who knows of the dead killer called _Angel Eyes_. They're young, fresh-faced and with a smattering of freckles -- Susan had been older but then _I_ hadn't been. To be spotted here, of all places. My fingers stay where they are, close to the Remington. 

Funny how little energy I've had for watching over my shoulder since walking in to these unfamiliar surroundings. 

“It's my first time,” I say carefully. They're glaring. 

“You like poetry? You going to perform?” 

“Yes -- and no. I tend to prefer the words of others,” I reach for the scotch-smooth poise I used with Rose. It hasn't gone rusty in the slightest. 

Their frown deepens, misunderstanding flitting across their face, “Are you a cop?” 

“Good god. No. No, certainly not.” 

“Alright, cowboy,” they tilt their head-- something about their cheeks rather feminine, but their gestures distinctly different. 

Reading strangers. An old hobby of mine, before I let anyone know me. Giving pseudonyms to rambling construction workers at bars, appearing at weekly hockey matches for men who were happy to know little about me. _Audi, vide, tace, si tu vis vivere in pace._ I wish I could say it has the magnetic appeal it once had. 

I wish I could say there was something of that self to remember. Feels at least in part like that man has died -- but then what could I say is left? 

_The night just barely hit moonrise when I saw your flicker flare firefly._

Well, what better place to entertain such cliche self-conceptions. My watchful companion offers mild applause when the speaker finishes, and I join in. That attempt was at least not rankling nor insulting. 

“I like poetry. That’s why I run this thing,” they light a cigarette. They’re not apologetic, but -- explaining themselves. I feel my spine relax slightly, “But the last girl warned me when I took this over -- the cops, they like to look for hippies here, sometimes.”

“Perhaps you shouldn't expect I'm not lying.” 

“Maybe,” they tap their cigarette, grinning out of the corner of their mouth. I can place part of their accent now-- slightly Irish, “But I saw you making a face when Laina was doing hers, so.”

“A face,” I repeat, bringing my hands to rest on the table. 

“I'd bet ten bucks that you're here carrying a torch. Though wouldn't bet on if it's an ex or a crush…” 

I freeze, part of me half- thinking this is _worse_ than being recognized as the dead man I am, but no, that thought is preposterous in and of itself. In this case I can stand, walk away without fear for my life, simply with a mildly bruised dignity. Prices paid for human desires. I’ve had worse. 

Yes, I push my chair back, thinking fleetingly of my _innamorato_ wandering the halls of the priory. I’ve certainly had worse. 

“Hey, hey, cowboy, don't run off. I didn't mean that. I'm Jesse,” they stick out a hand, blocking my path. I draw my lips thin, contemplating the truce. I don't have much of a desire to return to the empty gatehouse. Not yet. 

“Sebastian,” I relent, clasping their hand briefly with my glove. It would take very little to break their fingers, or twist their wrist and send them flying them across the room. But they don't seem to know that. So I take a seat back down. 

“Sorry,” Jesse offers belatedly. They do seem to be genuine in that. Their name hasn’t particularly given me any further hints about how I should consider them -- perhaps that’s intentional. I say nothing to the apology, simply breathe in and nod. The nearby scent of cheap tobacco has its own ghost in it. 

Could I have been looking for ghosts, every time prior I crossed out of my blood-soaked metier to observe the world like a mildly bemused naturalist categorizing varieties of birds? 

Or was it myself, ever the phantom grasping uselessly at humanity? No, I was one foot in the grave long before now-- 

_Mierda,_ this terrible verse must be addling my thoughts. Before I know it, I'll be back here thieving mediocre lines for letters I can't send, much like the letter I left tucked in Tuco’s duluth, surely left unopened -- 

“Hey, I'm up next,” Jesse breaks through my reverie. They lean in, “Listen, I know it sounds like it's about a squeeze, but I promise, it isn't.”

I glance up, still distracted, nod once. Oddly kind of them to warn me off. There's an appreciable applause when they take to the microphone, no doubt at least in part due to their organizational role. 

_The fainted touch of waterfall, Full, where we stood, of the ecstasy of numbers…_

But for that matter, their work does have a captivating charm to it. Poetry. Yes. Something I've always been fond of, before the gatehouse I would still call ours, before even my mentor had expressed her confused fondness over my recitation of Dante over my first weapons training. 

An expectation laden on me by my father's hand, and yet one I've never found it in me to resent. 

_“By the charm of my works, and the reach of truth, I swear: I will bring to you a lake of pure glass. Birching across waters to ache at lonely mountains’ glory.”_

All the speakers here have an element of confession more so than poetics. But somehow tonight I find that equally cathartic and discomfiting. And Jesse’s -- lacks specifics. Normally not an admirable trait, but refreshing given the prior performers insistence on amorous subjects. 

_“Then you and I will chase a fire to the mountaintop. Letting it burn for all travelers who seek out our eyes.”_

I clap in earnest, when they finish. Their admirers chatter excitedly surrounding them as, another woman takes the mic. If I'm honest, I'm more than happy to be forgotten. 

Someone offers me tea in a chipped cup. I forget to refuse them. 

The steam rises, cools, untouched until the evening's close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All poetry by me, in my earlier years. Gotta self drag ;)
> 
> _El amor es torpe _\- Love is graceless. Spanish.__
> 
> ___Audi, vide, tace, si tu vis vivere in pace_ \- Hear, see, be silent, if you wish to live in peace. Latin._ _


	5. firelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Blondie tells is one also recounted to Tuco in _two pair and a red trilby_. Some Catholic stuff in this chapter? Naive Catholic.

“Could you pass the mashed potatoes?” 

“Sure.” Blondie put down his fork, lifting the dish over to Angel. Watched his gloved hands add a spoonful next to the chicken for longer than he should. 

_Course he wouldn't take those off for this. Why would he?_

Blondie isn't sure why he misses that. But then -- the sharp knot of guilt round his neck has loosened to a tangle of loss, nostalgia almost. It's been well over a month past Easter they've been taking dinner together. Settled into talking just in the evenings, for now. It was what Angel asked for. 

_Not like you can ask for any more than that._

Blondie hesitates on that thought for a moment, takes a sip of wine. Suddenly conscious of the thread of Joseph’s cassock, itching against his skin. What _if_ he came to dinner the next day, in jeans and a top-button-undone blue shirt, the same as he’d worn on the road? Would it feel any less like lying?

_Wouldn’t it just be you trying to make things as they were before? Which, look where that got you, Joseph._

Besides, there would be no call back to the road. Blondie scrapes the last bite of chicken off his plate, forcing it down. So things went on. Whatever the hell they are now. He steals another glance to Angel, lets that steady him. Then pushes his chair back, clearing the plates and making ready for whatever questions Angel has for him.

_Easier than the ones I’m thinking. Probably._

Blondie sits down on the floor, in front of the fire. He’s taken to doing that, prefers it to sitting at eye level with Angel. Always been more comfortable on the floor, years of offering the chair to someone else first. There’s something grounding about it, the soft Persian carpet across the stone floors. He studies the flames licking at a birch log. 

“So. What are you asking about tonight.”

Angel lights a match behind him, a satisfying snap.

“I'm waiting. Feel like you've got something to say first.”

Blondie’s lip twists, _how the hell is it he knows_ \-- but never mind, that’s what he’s there for, isn’t it? He tears his gaze from the fire, looks up at Angel’s blank serenity. One eye on him, one eye on the door. Same as always. 

“You know, I’m very tempted to say ‘fuck you’ to that but -- that wouldn’t be who I’m really angry with,” Blondie starts, latching on to the last thought he has. Angel makes a noncommittal gesture, as if to say, ‘you could do no worse’. Blondie is already shaking his head.

“No, no -- I’m sure as hell not going to say that. Look. You’re expecting to be get hurt from this, but I damn well gotta try to make sure that’s not what’s happening here.”

Angel lowers his pipe, a tired smile playing at the corner of his mouth. 

“You’re already hurting. I know, I know.”

Angel ignores that comment, offers neither agreement nor disagreement. Simply presses on, “Who are you angry with?”

Blondie exhales a long time. Then it all tumbles out in a rush, “That _fucking_ priest Samson, the one who told me to repent for sodomy and nothing else. Blaming Tuco for what I did. The church. The whole goddamn lie of it. Myself, most of all. For believing it.”

The gesture of his hands falls off to a slight shake. He drops it to the ground, 

“There you go. That’s what makes whatever pain, if it comes, worth it.”

“Tch,” Blondie stares at the fire, not bothering to read Angel’s expression, “What, hearing that you were right?”

“No-- no, of course not. It's -- hearing you realize things. Hard as they might be to say, you know. I am doing this because I believe you can have these realizations, articulate them, move past them. And every time you do, it reminds me that faith is not misplaced.”

Blondie does turn then, near-disbelieving, to study the murderer he’s knowingly set his soul in the hands of. Angel's expression has barely changed, but there is a knowing tilt to his head. An old spark of excitement rises in his chest, swept out to be left with a cold emptiness. 

_You remember how that used to feel._

That’s the truth of it, that in the six months they spent together when they’d first met, they’d been equally enthralled by each other. Equally unable to predict the other. 

_How much has that changed?_

“Angel -- how. Why the hell do you say things like that?”

“If I'm going to demand things that are true of you, I ought to offer you the same sometimes.”

“Right,” Blondie's disbelief almost makes him dizzy-- but then, when has anything Angel said or did been easy to believe?

_When has he ever lied to me?_

That one has an easy answer. Blondie draws up his knees, resisting the urge to shift from the fire closer to Angel's lap. Remembering a painting by Luce, the steady pulse of Angel's neck resting by his fingertips. He shivers, despite the heat of the fire. He glances back, expecting another question. 

“I've gotten off track,” Angel's lips worry at the pipe, “You were angry with the church, and yourself?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I-- fuck. I never told you why I became a priest, did I?” 

“I should like to know that.” 

Blondie squeezes his knees in tighter. At least he's been thinking about it a while. Since his disaster of an Easter confession. Since every rosary after. Every one he’s felt like throwing the plastic beads across the room. 

“It's got to be one of the stupidest stories out there. More so now. So. When I was a kid, I had a friend. A dreamer with queer parents, two men who called themselves uncles. I think he was a military brat. But he had all kinds of funny ideas about what it meant to be Catholic,” Blondie shakes out a cigarillo, getting the rhythm of talking by now. It's been a while since he'd told this story -- not since -- 

Well, better that he not dwell on who last heard it. 

“We used to play at being Catholic together. Tim made it seem like the pomp and ceremony was a lot more exciting than whatever Calvinism did for anybody. Though at that point I'd probably have latched on to anything that got me away from my aunt,” Blondie nudges forward to light the cigarillo in the coals of the fire. Sucks in hard, the familiar taste of it mixing with the scent of Angel's pipe. Grounding. 

“With what little I know of your aunt, that seems understandable.”

“Here's the stupid part. Most of all, he gave me the idea that the priests were queer. It wasn't till three months in to my instruction at the priory that I even learned it was a sin. I mean, sure, I knew lust was a damn sin. Just didn't know they called one lust worse than the other. And I thought -- priests having love for each other. It made sense.” 

Tuco had laughed, as he often did. It made it easier to tell him anything, the way he'd just let it roll off his shoulders, shrug and a hopeful grin-- 

_Goddamn it, don't you think about him like that anymore. Just don't._

“Well. Almost made a damn fool of myself blurting out my surprise over it when I found out -- so stupid,” he spits out the last few syllables, near vitriolic. Not knowing whether he expects Angel to laugh, to deride him, to sit cool and contemptuous of the childish fantasy he still even now harbored--

“Hmm. I'd call that serendipitous more than stupid.”

“...sorry?” 

_There he goes. Surprising you again._

Angel’s certainty turns to contrition, his mustache turning down, “Oh, no, I should apologize. Did you want my thoughts on the subject?” 

“Um. Sure.” 

Angel leans forward in the rocking chair, meeting Blondie's eyes, “It's for the better that you were never taught as a child to fear or hate that in yourself. Do you see what I mean?” 

“Guess you're right, yeah,” Blondie mumbles, feeling both oddly dazed and as if -- he’d known that himself, once. Forgotten it. 

It’s so different, passing these stories on to Angel, not couching them in the careful layers of Manco, Joseph, anyone else. Not lighter, as it was with Tuco, but-- like holding them up to the light, sharp and all-too bright. The angles hurt to see clearly, but there was something warm in it. 

“I thought you were going to say it was stupid to get caught up in the religion at all. And you'd be right,” Blondie adds.

“Well. I understand, to some degree, the call of something you know, but that also offers escape from the grim path that's been laid before you.”

Blondie turns that over in his mind, watching the sparks snap up the flue. Remembering the first story Angel had told him, over dinner at an Italian restaurant “...Did you just compare deciding to be a priest to deciding to kill people for a living?” 

“I'm glad you remember who you're speaking with,” Angel says dryly, a ghost of a smile on his face. 

Blondie shakes his head, lets that one lie. The real thing he ought to say is coming to his lips. 

“I don't think I can study to be a priest anymore. Hell. I can't believe I tried.”

Angel leans forward again, gloved hands on his knees, attention now completely away from the door, “Is that what you're angry with yourself for? Aligning yourself with a religion that would call the blessing of your love instead a debased sin?” 

“Yes-- no. I don’t know,” hell, it was a minefield talking about this with Angel. But it’s not as if he could have this conversation with Pablo. And all of the other priests would just be as thick-headed as Samson, “It’s not -- I don’t think it’s the religion. Not -- what it is, it’s what I wanted from it.”

“So. What is it you wanted?”

“Hold on, I’m thinking,” Blondie is still trying to reach into the barbed knot of anger in his stomach, trying to unravel it. There was what Angel expected to hear, and then there was -- what he actually meant. 

_Maybe that will surprise him. Who the hell knows._

“I. I'm angry at myself for -- for thinking I could go back to wanting that. Wanting everything I thought Catholic holiness was, fooling myself about what it wasn't -- fuck, I mean,” Blondie drops his hands, his legs splaying out of the floor. Resists the urge to fall backwards. He can say this. He has to. 

“We came back here, and I thought, great, go back to being Joseph. Become a priest, pretend those years on the road never happened. Pretend I never fucked you over, hopefully Tuco would leave and find you eventually-- and I'd at least have that. At least I'd be that.” 

“I see.” 

“It's stupid, I know. I know it,” he repeats the last word softly. Angel inclines his head in partial agreement. 

“Well. There's the next question, then,” Angel says distantly, “If you aren't Manco the assassin, nor Joseph the Priest-- then who is Blondie? The hustler?”

“God above. I don't know. I was more myself with him than anyone.” 

“Fuck,” the softness in Angel's voice sweeps into Blondie’s bones. He looks up, stricken, has he gone too far-- but Angel only shakes his head once, “It simply-- I understand that thought near exactly.”

Blondie bites his lip hard. He'd fucked up even his second best shot, that they'd both be happy taking care of each other, him taken to the road and gone for good. Now this is all Angel has left. He digs his fingers into the rug, looking around the roughshod walls covered with bookshelf and tapestry alike.

_He shouldn't have had to come here._

_Joseph would have said it was what a murderer deserves. He was wrong about that too._

_But never mind that. I owe him an answer._

“I don't know if Blondie was ever anything more than his-- ” he could end that sentence with so many things. Partner. Partner in crime. Lover. Martyr. 

He leaves it. 

“And do you think that's what you are now?”

“No. And I don't want any name other than that one either.” 

“Good,” Angel says it faint, but sure. He stands a moment, kneels down to nudge another log into the dying fire. 

“So. If I come back tomorrow -- not dressed in a cassock-- 

“I'll be relieved not to be half-expecting another asinine lecture on the ten commandments,” Angel says dryly, but there's a smile in his eyes. Blondie still winces nonetheless. 

“I am sorry about that--”

“If you start on apologies, we'll be here all night,” the sudden coldness in Angel's voice sweeps through the room like a draft. He glances to the door, “You should go.”

The abrupt dismissal stops Blondie short, the words dying in his throat. He hadn't realized the heaviness in his limbs lifting just slightly after all he'd put to words. 

_Course it wouldn't make a difference. Not about what you did._

The shame prickles through him that he was even hoping for that. For anything Angel might offer apart from cool judgement, but. He should know better, shouldn't he? 

“...can I ask you a question, first?” it's only half formed on his tongue. Just as well, seeing the flash of pain cut across Angel’s cheekbones. 

“Not tonight, I should think. Not yet.”

“Okay,” Blondie scrambles to his feet, taking his leave. Resisting the urge to glance back to Angel’s face one more time, try to read something there. 

He's not sure he wants to know, for that matter, if there's anything besides sunk costs in why Angel puts himself through this every damn night. 


	6. paperwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one of the funnier ones. Also, Pablo/Father Paul POV! More heavy on the Catholic stuff for that :)
> 
> Just a friendly reminder that Blondie's given name is Joseph, so that's what Father Paul knows him as!

Father Paul Ramirez is indeed aware that his duties to the Holy Father include a fair amount of paperwork. Howsoever-- heavens, it does pile up quickly. 

He sifts through another curt letter from the archdiocese, massaging his temples. The contact information for the buyer of gold bullion lies at the bottom of his foot-high stack. The cursed gold itself hides in the safe tucked in the Rose Chapel. 

His brother's devil of a lover provided ample funds for them, yes. For years to come. But what good was that money in a form that was itself illegal? This was tumbling so far out of his hands, but at least the police had made no appearance since William’s arrest. 

He absently fills in yesterday's date to the return letter for the Vermont priory. Footsteps linger by his door. He glances up, perhaps Wallace seeking consultation on the coming Pentacostal celebration? 

But the door remains undisturbed. No knocks, and yet-- no further footsteps as well. He turns back to his letter, crossing out the date --

The door slams open, and who should walk in but Joseph, his brow set in weary resignation. And what's more, he's dressed in the same clothes he came to their humble priory wearing last winter. 

“I'm sorry, Father. I can't -- I'm not able to continue my studies to become a priest,” he sets the folded cassock down near the paperwork, utterly rigid with seriousness. 

Paul blinks. Stares a moment at the cassock amidst the pile of unfinished work, then, _¡Dios del cielo!_ \-- he starts to laugh. It feels good to. The priory has been rather a solemn, joyless place as of late. Hardly befitting of God's message. 

He gets ahold of himself when he catches sight of Joseph's embarrassment, waving his hand in what he hopes to be a reassuring gesture. 

“Joseph, I hope you don't believe I'm laughing at you-- quite the opposite I have to laugh at my own utter incompetence in understanding what intent you had with your return. Had I known you were interested in taking up your studies again -- well, it's not a wonder at all if you've felt at a loss for reconnecting with God, in a place like this. My sincerest apologies.” 

Joseph appears to be rather struck dumb by this, “So you…what did you think I was doing?”

“The sinful truth is I haven't dwelt on it much at all, there have been so many matters that required my attention,” Father Paul says wryly, “but I suppose if anyone had asked, I would have expected you to be buying time here with piety. Not insincere but -- certainly I had no idea of your intentions to stay.” 

“...I guess I never told you. I wasn't -- thinking either.” 

“Then we both have something to confess this afternoon, I suppose. Neglect of attention and clarity,” Father Paul pulls the papers into a neat stack, “But since you have my attention, Joseph-- do you wish to have a conversation about your previous mission to take up the cloth? Or why you've decided it's no longer possible?” 

“I. Um. Shit." 

That much is unusual, for Joseph to swear. In front of him, at least. Father Paul firmly sets aside the papers, working up what he hopes to be a kind gaze. It works well enough with the laity, in any case. 

"...would you prefer it if we discussed it in private?" 

"Yeah, um," Joseph stands with rigid motions, closing the door behind him. It's the most tense Father Paul has seen him since he first came to the priory as a young boy-- or, no, not quite. Since he'd seen him praying a few days before Easter. He pulls over the chair to face the desk, sits down while staring at the abandoned cassock. 

"I. I don't think I can confess this to you, not all of it."

Father Paul sifts through the right words, searching for the grace to not be pointed, "...if it's to do with my brother, I wouldn't want to put myself between the two of you either."

"Mmf," Joseph looks down with a contained self-hatred that tugs at Father Paul's heart. How had he lost his way so utterly? 

"It's not really that. So I did confess -- like I said I would, before Easter. And the advice I got, god above. It was so wrong. He-- couldn't see what it was I'd done. Blamed some of it on Tuco, I--" he stops himself, anguished guilt flashing across his brow, "Never mind that."

“Joseph. If you’re questioning whether there is forgiveness enough, salvation enough -- I can say with all the faith and certainty within me that there is, for you as much as anyone. And for you, I am certain, more so for any of the other priests here.”

Joseph winces visibly. Paul was never quite certain if Tuco had let him know what shelter of sordid sin this priory had come to be-- surely not, considering he’d believed himself to be in training here?

“No -- I mean, you’re probably right. There’s some priest, somewhere, who could hear it out and make sense of it. Easily, even,” he looks up suddenly, blue eyes fierce with pain and passion alike,"That's not why I have to do this. See. I was always like that, as a priest, right? Study, memorize all the right lines, write the Word into my head and come out holy enough to tell people how to fix things. But it was just -- I know I’d be the same kind of man, sitting in that box, telling someone like me that the only thing I did wrong was loving another man--” 

He stops himself, all the fire going out of him. Slumps into the chair, his eyes flickering to the cassock once more. 

“No, Father, I know there are better priests out there. But I don’t think -- I’m ever going to be one of them.”

“All right,” it’s a slightly shocking statement, to Paul, despite the fact that if anyone had asked him mere hours before, he’d have laughed and said that Joseph gave up that dream for a better earthly calling decades ago. But never mind that, he should answer to his own calling. 

“Do you need that kind of guidance right now? I can understand how it would be difficult with myself, or even Wallace-- I could try to send away for--”

“Oh, um. No. Don’t worry yourself, I’ve got someone-- um. Let’s just say that if it’s the Lord looking out for me right now, he’s doing it in a damn funny kind of way,” he reaches for his pocket, likely for those cigarillos he favors, and then simply jams his hands in his pockets. 

Paul waits for him to speak again, still somewhat speechless himself. At the very least, Joseph seems -- sure of what he’s doing. And Paul doesn’t recall if he’s ever said quite as much before. So what was there, indeed, to say in return?

“So long as you know the Lord is still with you.”

“...trying to believe that, yeah.”

“Will you be present at the Pentacostal mass?”

“Of course, Father,” Joseph winces, his laconic indifference he’s retreated to so fragile even now, “are you-- is it all right if I stay here? Where I've been sleeping?"

“Considering I wasn't letting you stay on the grounds that you were studying, it seems utterly foolish to bar you now,” Father Paul says with what he hopes to be a bracing smile, “Besides, I could use a pair of eyes other than Wallace's to keep an eye on Nicolas and Samson.” 

The relief on Joseph's face is palpable. Father Paul is almost surprised, when he thinks on it. For all the time Joseph spends with -- and here Paul curses himself for still failing to have found a name to call that man apart from _Angel Eyes_ \-- their gatehouse resident, Paul had expected this to end with him declaring to take up residence there. 

But then again -- _a damn funny kind of way_ \-- ah. Father Paul could guess, then, who Joseph might be getting guidance from. 

“I look forward to your presence at mass, then.”

“Yeah, um. Thanks, Father. Thanks so much,” he stands up, the lines on his face deeper than Father Paul remembers them, “I guess you know this but. You’re one of the good ones and always have been.”

Father Paul nods, spreading his arms, “And still very much not without sin, Joseph. But I’m glad you seem to have -- God speaking to you in some ways, however unusual.”

And to that end, Paul decides-- he ought to stop neglecting that aspect of his care of the priory, and discover who the man who dropped two hundred thousand dollars in gold on their doorstep at his brother’s behest truly _is_.

If he could only make _use_ of the gold, after all that! 


	7. stone watch

The steps to the attic creak under my footfalls. 

Some sharp and cutting, others long and groaning. I remember how to avoid that, every skip and angle.  _ Playful _ , he called it. 

I stop a moment, letting the cool grit of the stone walls ground me. I came up these stairs to cease my avoidance of what's past. To begin to consider what may be ahead. 

_ What you will do, Angel Eyes, above all else, is survive.  _

Alma's promise. One of few she made me. One that sometimes I wonder how close she kept to herself. 

I continue the climb up to the most disorderly space in the gatehouse, the cluttered old furniture from previous usage of the home, and of course, a few boxes of my own. The texts that I'd so carefully smuggled out from my home with Susan's help. That Tuco had immediately recognized for their significance, whose gift they must be to have travelled such a distance --

\-- and hell, I'd never even let him know at what cost. The letter, the confession resting so carefully in his duluth bag. Did he simply throw it away? 

I tighten the strap on my wrist, watch the sunlight from the small window sift through the motes of dust. That old writing desk, heavy oak that the movers had struggled to store up here-- it could find use, up here. After a moment, I go to work moving the chipped dining chairs away from the corner with the best vantage point to the window. The desk takes some maneuvering to get purchase on, the harsh scrape against the dry wood as I push it into place. Then one of the dining chairs, for the moment, to sit amidst the dust and debris.

I breathe out. It’s good to feel certain muscles working again.  _ Dii facientes adiuvant,  _ which deserves the glibness in which the phrase comes to mind. 

Now. There was a purpose to this ascent, I remember. My eyes scan the room, checking the window first--

Ah, that's right. Letters. 

I'd tucked Tuco's letters carefully inside the first volume of  _ Anabasis _ . Since taking possession of the gatehouse, I'd reread them several times over, sifting through sincerity I'd been unable to fully believe before. 

Of course, since he's left I haven't touched them. 

I rummage absently in the desk, coming out with yellowed folios of blank paper. There's a pen in my pocket. I consider the proposition before me, to speak or to listen. Would either of them right the directionless pacings of my overwrought thoughts? Would they drive me deeper into it? 

I uncap the pen, staring at the blank page. Of course I've been asking myself what I would say to him for weeks. Of course this is all a moot point; all contact is at this point up to Tuco's discretion. Given who I continue to keep company with. 

I put the pen to the page. 

_ Dear Alma, _

_ Memento mori _ , now there's a flavor of madness, bitter and blue-galled. If the listener cannot hear for the moment, why not go one step further to a listener that never will. 

The words come easily, though. 

_ I remember when you offered me freedom, the morning after you’d taken me in. With all the precision I would come to know in you, gave me a story to tell to an orphanage, far enough from where prying Romano's would find me until I could be unrecognizable by my own efforts. Just eleven years, I remember this. _

_ De ilusión también se vive _ _. You remember my disbelief, that you thought I could be anything but cut from the blood soaked cloth of my father's house.  _

_ You laughed, of course then, I couldn't name it as anything painful. But it was.  _

_ I am free now, Alma, freer than I've ever been, and it inspires in me such terror and claustrophobia as I’ve never known. Clinging to what little I can call familiar-- is this, then, what you so feared, when I proposed that we could someday cut free of this web; that I’d find us a way, if that was what you wanted.  _

_ You never could let yourself want that, I know. I knew that, then and know.  _

_ The fact remains that I wish you were here to share it. I could use someone with your tirelessness patrolling eye, I have no vitality in it  _

I hesitate writing, then. This would worry her. Which is, granted, an irrational thought, but still somehow an unacceptable one. I strike through the last line, consider a transcription. Consider starting anew entirely. 

But then, I know what needs to be done. 

I fold the letter carefully, stand to tuck it in the third volume of  _ Anabasis _ . Then, leaving the first untouched, I set out to sweep the grounds, see them safe. When I reach the unfamiliar, crumbling ruins in the north grounds, I set to investigate it further, as I've meant to for months. 

The dark scorches climbing up the stone walls mark its fate. The first iteration of the priory, to be replaced soon after the disaster of an evening fire without a watchful eye. I remember Blondie recounting this begrudgingly in the barbed and stilted exchanges following my arrival to the priory. 

I cannot honestly say whether they were more or less harrowing than the exchanges we share now.  _ Chi vuol saldar pinga non la maneggia. _

Certainly I had much better distractions then. 

I study the husks of the ornate window frames, the vines now years-since making their home there. I've long suspected the lichen-encrusted rock of the former cathedral shell could be climbed with little effort. With fingers deft, the right ornate footholds, the ascent is easy. I survey from the top, making estimations of where a manageable sniper rifle could reach from this height. One of the earlier reasons for my dismissal of the site was its lack of camouflage or protection for an assailant. 

That, and the desire in my early stay at the gatehouse to avoid pointed questions from Blondie. 

Despite the high ground advantage, the surrounding trees offer little such shelter, as I suspected. But still, from this distance I can easily make out a cassock-dressed figure from several hundred yards away--

\-- tracking towards me at quite the speed. I settle in to a more comfortable position, considering an explanation that might best suit the religious mind. Equally considering offering none whatsoever. But then, as the approach reveals it to be Father Paul, I can't shake off the feeling that I owe him at least a few words. 

"...who's that up there-- oh. An-- ah," Father Paul stumbles on my given name. I should have known to give him a more suitable name, given that it could be seen as affectionate under Tuco or Blondie's tongue.

"Sebastian, Father Paul."

"Sebastian's martyrdom involved no great heights."

"Oh, good Lord. This isn't a martyrdom," I really ought to have considered how this looks, perched up here at such a height, "No, I simply meant that you may call me Sebastian, if that suits. It's the name I've taken as of late." 

"Sebastian,  _ deus animae tuae misereatur _ . Exactly what is it you intend, up there?" he squints in the summer sunlight. I suppose I must appear something of a peculiar bird, squatting on this precipice. But his brow is pinched with concern, and I sift through my mind for something to put that to rest. 

"Not to worry, at this height I would have to fall very precisely and very poorly to risk death, and I have no intention of risking my limbs to accident."

The lines on his forehead deepen, "This does not...answer the question."

"Ah. My mistake. I've indicated to you that certain of my habits ought not to be questioned. But in short, I am considering the safety of this as a vantage point," as has always been my wont, I shy away from outright lies.

Father Paul continues to frown up at me, not in the least soothed. 

"I promise you this is the opposite of concerning behavior," I say, already quickly making my descent, "and for that matter, the fact that you've so easily spotted me at a distance only strengthens the case for safety." 

He exhales, looking somewhere between troubled and utterly at a loss. 

"If you give your word to that. I see that there's omission in this, God be with you-- but you're not hiding it, so I will assume the best of you." 

"You're very kind, Father," I say with what I hope to be a bracing tone. 

"Are you returning to the gatehouse? I'm headed in that direction by way of the kitchen, if you wished for company." 

"I'm not opposed." 

He gestures to the return path, and we take it together, much slower than the pace that brought me here. I can see him catching glimpses 

"I must apologize that I never found a moment to follow up on our conversation at Easter."

"Would that be ill-befitting of the boundaries of confession?"

"Only if you intended it to be confession, which I recall you saying you did not."

A ghost of a smile finds its way to my lips, "I suppose I did say that. But what need did you have to follow up? My questions were sufficiently answered.”

“I worry I did not give them their due. I am better equipped for such a conversation; if you wish to resume it.” 

An earnest offer, that gives me pause even as we continue our walk. I’ve no stomach for conversion, and never will. But I suspect he makes the offer not for wont of adding my own so-called soul to his ledger of those saved-- but to hone his own theological discourse. That was something I once found a perverse amusement in while Blondie was so easily talked into circles. 

Perhaps I’ve something to learn from him, as I had. 

“Tomorrow, perhaps?” I offer. I’m just now regaining some semblance of self. Just now realizing that. 

“That serves well, I have to check on our replenishment of jam stock. My brother sent away for a few cases-- gifts to friends who’ve helped him. I’m only too happy to see him safe.”

_ Mendacem memorem esse oportet.  _ It’s only years of keeping my features carefully schooled around Rose that prevent anything from coming to the surface. Hearing that Tuco has been in contact with Father Paul, that he’s safe,  _ somewhere _ out there.    


“...ah.” 

Bittersweet, perhaps. I continue walking, almost losing notice as Father Paul stops at the priory’s north entrance. I turn back, letting the enigmatic smile I so often reserved for half-truths cross over my face. Those muscles are tired, at best, unpracticed, at worst. 

“Peace be with you, Sebastian.”

Then I cannot tell, in his habitual gentleness, if Pablo sees a weakness in me that requires soothing. No matter. I tilt my head in the bright sunlight, offer a phrase from decades of memory. 

“And also with you.”


	8. rocking chair

“I’ve decided, tonight, you can ask.”

Blondie blinks, almost fumbling the log he was working into the fire. _Tonight?_ He wracks his brains for anything in particular that might have been special. They took a quiet dinner together, the smell of that Spanish paella still lingering amid the smoke from the fire. Angel seemed contemplative then. _Not unhappy._ Blondie glances back to Angel, his brow pinched with confusion. Angel inclines his head from the rocking chair, unreadable. 

“You said you had a question, did you not? A few weeks prior?”

“Yeah, um. I did,” Blondie draws himself back to sitting onto the thick carpet, unable to meet Angel’s gaze. 

He searches his memory for the way he would have phrased it then. The fire crackles, utterly devoid of answer. Seems even stupider to be asking now, but hell, he has the offer, doesn’t he?

_How are you sure you’ve got the right words for that?_

_I mean, are there any?_

“I just-- I wanted to hear it from you. Why you’re doing all this with me.”

He steals a glance to Angel, that usually stony face alive with questions. _Shit. Not explaining this well._

“I know you don’t have to -- hell, you could have left me to rot here for what I did. So. That’s what I want to know, is why,” Blondie fights to keep his gaze on Angel steady. He watches his former lover’s mask falter, confusion and almost amusement running across his face. _Right, yeah. Can’t stop from making a fool of myself._

“You mean you don’t-- know?” Angel begins carefully. 

“I -- yes?”

Angel Eyes lets out a small exhale, opening his mouth, and then closing it. He holds up a finger to wait. Blondie doesn’t have anywhere to go, of course. Never has. Angel Eyes takes out his pipe, almost deliberate, ritualistic. Thinking with his hands before his lips let anything slip too far. 

_You want to see him slip, don’t you?_

Of course Blondie does. And at the same time -- can't bear the thought of it. 

Angel sucks at the pipe a moment, once it’s comfortably lit. Then, he speaks, slow and careful, "I was going to say, that’s a preposterous, laughable question, but the answer sounds more preposterous than I am prepared to admit, and bears explanation that I do not believe I can unravel." 

“Um. Okay,” Blondie studies the fire, his cheeks burning. 

"No, but. The best reason I can give you, against all manner of reason, is that I love you, and still do in spite of egregious pain you've been the cause of. That I haven't forgiven you for."

Blondie blinks, too shocked to respond, "Um.”

"You're surprised," Angel frowns at him, almost pitying, "Part of the reason my initial thought was to laugh was that-- why on Earth would I go through with this if I didn't?"

A thousand reasons sift through Blondie’s head, most of them circling around some form of _guilt_ or _you felt like you owed me_ . They stick in his throat, stupid, small-minded things. _Things I would have thought_. Reasons he told himself to stay with Tuco, sometimes. When the going was bad. 

“...you know, that’s the wrong tack. Don’t answer that,” Angel Eyes is studying him with concern, hands folded in his lap, “My expectation that it should have been obvious was clearly misguided. _Cogitationes posteriores sunt saniores._ ”

Blondie exhales a while. _Trying not to say anything stupid_. When he looks up, Angel is still watching him carefully. 

“It’s just hard for me to believe it, I guess. I would have done the same for -- worse reasons. Ones I don’t want to think about.”

Angel answers almost too quickly, “Is there anything I can say that would help you believe? To promise, or to do that I haven’t already?”

“I don’t know, I -- fuck, I mean. You haven’t touched me in months, I thought --”

“You think that’s what love is? That I’ll fuck you?”

Blondie blinks. It sounds so ridiculous, garish almost when he says it. _How could I ever have thought that?_

_Don’t you still?_

“No. I don’t think that, I guess.”

Angel goes quiet, setting his pipe on the counter a moment. He flexes his gloved hands, considering them for a moment. Then looks back at Blondie. 

“Do you want me to touch you? Come here.”

“Not if you’re just doing it cause I--”

“I wouldn’t ask if I also didn’t miss it. You can trust that.”

“Okay,” Blondie realizes with a shock running through him how Angel means to touch him. Head nestled in his lap, neck exposed -- like the son offering penance to the father, in a painting hanging in New Mexico. _He said that wasn’t about guilt then. Or forgiveness._

Blondie swallows, his heart beating in his throat. He wonders if Angel will take off the gloves as he shifts forward. His former lover makes no move to. 

Or. His lover, he supposes he could still say. 

Blondie lowers his head to Angel’s thighs carefully, facing the fire. Soft leather settles on his neck, just gently. _Probably for the better_. 

He swallows, the bitter thought slipping out, “So is this what we’re here for? Clinging to things that look like good memories?”

“Looking back to what was good -- is that something you think of as evil?” Angel neither moves, nor sounds angry. Just distant. Curious. Blondie takes that as encouragement, placing a hand carefully on top of his thigh. 

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot. That I used to do, still do,” Blondie bites his tongue on mentioning Tuco’s name, “I guess that’s one of the answers I expected. That it was just habit, you putting things together after I burned them down again.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing I just -- I don’t know. I don’t want that to be the only thing that’s left for you.”

Angel Eyes just breathes in, gently and without words. It’s then that Blondie realizes he’s been -- babbling. Nervous habits. Something he never used to do as _Manco_ , who was always so good at staying quiet, saying the right thing just when he should. _Wonder if Angel misses that any_. 

_Probably not._

It’s the contact itself that’s simmering over his skin, almost overwhelming. The warmth of skin under fabric next to his cheek. Blondie feels a lump rise in his throat, swallows it down. _Just keep it together. Keep talking if you have to._

“You want to know what it was like, the first time?” Blondie’s voice sounds hoarse even to himself. 

“Yes. I hadn’t considered till now that memory probably seemed so entirely different to you.”

There isn’t an accusation in Angel’s voice at least. Just a weighted sense of melancholy. _All those lies_ \-- _we never really took them out into the open_. Not in detail. Always barreling forward, moving towards the horizon, the next story, the next big break. 

Blondie blinks as Angel’s gloved fingers shift across his skin. _Was that really all a fantasy?_

“There were -- so many times in those six months I thought: hell. This -- our story, us _loving_ each other,” the word is heavy on his lips, but he says it anyways. If Angel could, he damn well better, “I could tell it was something completely new to you. It wasn’t just because you said as much, god, I just. Every time you let the walls down a little more I couldn’t believe you were doing this with me. It just -- it made letting you down unthinkable.”

“I thought of it as so transformative then,” Angel’s voice is quiet. Near-fragile. Blondie remembers it sounding that way, at his mother’s grave, “How many times I’ve thought that naive, now, I couldn’t say. But then, of course -- it _was_ transformative. It would be pointless to think otherwise. The actions I took after that I never would have considered before.”

“I’d been so many different names on the road, it took me some time to notice that ‘Manco’ actually did a number on me,” Blondie murmurs, “you should have seen who I took up with after. It was just. So stupid.”

Angel laughs, soft and distant above him. _Guess there is something to be said about good memories_ . It feels like it’s been a long time since Blondie heard him laugh like that. _Can count the times since on one hand._

“What was different about Manco?”

“For a while I thought it was just -- fact that I played the role so well, that you believed in it so much. And yeah, it was -- one I liked. One I wanted to be. But it wasn’t just that,” “I just knew it -- meant a lot to you. Hustler’s instincts. So it seemed like there wasn’t a way out. If I wanted you, I’d have to be Manco. And I dunno. After I taught you to hot-wire the car, I knew then I’d do anything you asked.”

“I craved who you were as Manco so ardently when I found you again -- not for the reasons you think,” Angel adds, even as Blondie can feel the guilt coiling up his spine, “You seemed open to me then. Am I right in believing you were as honest as you could be, those first six months?”

“Best hustles are the ones you believe yourself. Yeah.” 

“But when you returned you were -- distant. Enigmatic, trying to push me one way or the other. It was like a caricature of who you were. Of course, Manco had his secrets, but there was always this sense of being one breath away from them.”

“You can’t imagine what it was like being me, one breath away from yours. I never had any secrets worth telling.”

“I sometimes wonder where I would have stopped, if you had told me the truth before,” Angel’s fingers card through Blondie’s hair, bare and warm. It’s that sensation that cuts the words off in his throat, his whole body prickling with a hum of _content_ he hasn’t felt since he burned it all down. Since before that. _God. I didn’t think I’d_ get _to feel that again_.

But maybe that was written in all that Angel was too, all his stories and blood and memories. That there would be deeds disgusting and unspeakable, unforgivable even to the ears of those who swore absolution. And yet -- there would still be wood crackling in the fire, a shared meal, warm fingers gently resting on his pulse. 

“It’s late.”

“Yeah, I-- should go,” Blondie sits back, belatedly noticing his knees are sore. _We were there for a long time._

 _Still. I should say what I have to_.

“Angel, I -- yes, I believe you love me. And I’m going to do my damndest to do right by that.”  
  
Angel smiles, crooked and distant, “Love isn’t a debt to be owed. That comes from something else.”

“I know that. I know. But I do love you. I do.”

Angel’s hand catches his chin, just holding him steady there. For a moment, Blondie wonders if he’s going to kiss him, forget all those careful words, layered with restraint.

He does. But just a gentle seal, brief at the top of his forehead like a blessing. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some thoughts on this one:
> 
> \- This took me probably a year to write. It's not perfect but -- it's there, and I like that.
> 
> \- I think a lot of other writers would put this sort of affirmation at the end of a story rather than at the ~1/2 mark. There are a few reasons for that for me. First, they're not whole again, not by a long shot, so rest assured there's still story left for you. Second, the treatment of the "I love you" moment (TM) often hits me the same way as the They Finally Had Sex(TM) moment, which is to say there's a sharp awareness of the structure imposed overtop of when the timing happens. If you're in a relationship for a long, lasting period of time, let me assure you that you can and should say 'I love you' as often as it is necessary, as you want to, as it feels decadent and joyful to do so, as it feels significant to. And there will still be work for you to do, in spite of saying it. 
> 
> \- The other thing is of course -- Angel is still angry, and still messy. But the point of this coming here now is of course -- we have our moments that push and pull, that seem like they are better only for things to fall away to still right back where we started. I can promise you they won't backslide dramatically, but this also isn't a permanent fix. The asymmetry between Blondie offering his extreme vulnerability and honesty to Angel and Angel keeping his carefully locked up is going to end, and it will be difficult for them for a little longer yet. 
> 
> -Also if you miss Tuco -- he'll be back in this soon <3
> 
> thanks for reading all this! Comments are welcome and loved.


	9. peas and strawberries

The fruits of a diligent spring turn up before the summer peaks. It surprises Father Paul every year, with gratitude towards the Lord for their harvest. Money may be tight when the rent comes due, but between Wallace's eye for a bargain on a cut of meat and the green that the good Earth offers, they never go hungry in these months. He wipes his brow, feeling a smear of dirt make its home there. Even Benedict would take some joy in what the gardens yield, he suspects. 

"Is that Father Paul?" 

The voice calling in to the garden from the gate is deep and full of gravitas. Paul peeks his head from around the tomato stakes. Sebastian, his gaze sharp and searching. It’s been a few days since Paul saw him, though they did share a lively game of chess then. 

“What can I do for you, Sebastian?” He lifts himself from his seat on the ground to greet their priory’s strangest resident.

“ _ Dii facientes adiuvant. _ I thought I would offer help, should you need it?”

Father Paul pauses, a bemused smile coming to his lips, “There’s another basket to the left of the gate. I haven’t gotten to picking peas yet.”

Sebastian nods, dutifully picking it up and studying the rows of the garden carefully. Paul wonders if he’s ever been in a garden before. 

“The peas are just there,” he gestures to the trellis in the adjacent row, “Take the pods that are getting round, and if you’re unsure, take them anyways. Idleness tends to make them more bitter. You can eat them with the pod if you like. They’re sweet as candy.”

“All right,” 

There are a few more minutes of silently digging up the weeds around the tomatoes till he hears Sebastian crunch one of the pea pods. He smiles fondly, thinking about how Tuco would have hardly needed the invitation. Perhaps they’ll have more of a harvest this year, with neither Wallace nor Tuco doing the picking. 

“How are they?”

“Quite sweet, as you said.”

“Something you’d enjoy cooking with? Joseph mentioned you do so often.”

Sebastian freezes, his face turning over a complicated series of emotions, “Perhaps. I’d have to think on it. To be honest, they are perfectly good without modification.”

“Things grown fresh often are.”

Quiet settles over them briefly again. Paul takes up a basket of his own, entering the other side of the row of peas to gather some spinach. Some fresh salad greens for dinner that evening. 

“How have you been? I didn’t think to ask at first, my apologies.”

“Difficult question to answer. Better than I have been, perhaps,” he makes quick work of the peas, the pile in his basket growing, “I continue to contemplate the nature of forgiveness. If you have any theological insights, I would hear them.”

A smile plays on Pablo’s lips, “As a matter of debate?”

“Not as such-- though if you wish a discussion, I could try my best,” Sebastian answers mildly. It’s odd, to Paul this request seems to border on seeking advice. 

“As a matter of spiritual insight?” Paul tries his best to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Perhaps...not in those words exactly, but yes,” his mustache twitches, the energy driving out of his clever gaze, “Let me give you a starting point for your thoughts -- forgiveness in the Biblical story of Joseph, as compared to that of Christ. Beginning with Christ, he offers forgiveness numerous times -- both to those who wronged him and those who are seen to have committed wrong in the eyes of God. Can you remark first I suppose on those, just the actions of Christ? Are either of those absolutions that of Man?”

“That of Man, as in --”

“Do you believe he is speaking as the Son of God, or as the embodiment of God in Man?” Sebastian presses. This is more of a debate than Paul initially would have expected. Or perhaps -- a distraction. 

Paul frowns carefully, weighing the words in his mind before deciding on a reply, “That is an interesting theological question to begin with, but also one that I think is less likely to offer you insights on forgiveness, should we get into the details of it. The briefest answer I can give is I believe the first characterization is more correct. We see more of God in Christ’s forgiveness than we do Man’s forgiveness -- the nature and direction of his forgiveness, you see, is different.”

“I see,” his lip curls thoughtfully under that mustache that Benedict was so fond of, “I appreciate the honesty, that it might yet be a divine forgiveness beyond us.”

“We can reach for it,” Paul says mildly.

“And what of the anger?” Sebastian presses -- too urgently for this to be anything but personal. Paul senses he ought to tread carefully.

“Christ was angry,” is all he replies. He leaves it there for the moment, letting the breeze and the gentle motions of picking greenery fill the space between them. 

“There is a story that might be of interest to you-- that of Jacob, the father of Joseph, and his brother Esau. Do you know of it?” Paul asks eventually. 

“No -- I confess my readings of the good Book have been quite nonsensical. I am familar with Joseph and his brothers, but that one is distant in my memory.”

“If you’re inclined, it is featured in the book of Genesis,” Paul murmurs, and then adds, somewhat mischievously, “If you’re inclined to conversion, here’s a chance it could come up in the liturgy readings soon.”

“ _ Perish _ the thought,” Sebastian replies vehemently, “However. I will read it. I need something to occupy my mind, and it occurs to me that such readings might provide you with better conversation.”

“And you with better ammunition,” Paul smiles. He’s come to rather enjoy having a quick wit to puncture holes in his future homilies. 

“If it serves. Specificity of understanding is essential for rooting out paradoxes. But go on, as I said, I’m not after a lively discussion today. What is the story?”

“I’ll refrain from the details, if you’re interested in looking into it next. But it is a story that has a more so human forgiveness in it. The brothers are twins, divided, and one wrongs the other, and comes to fear retribution from his brother, essentially. But his brother only offers forgiveness,” Paul smiles rather wryly. He wonders how often Benedict thinks of this passage, if ever. 

“Hmm. Do you think that forgiveness is offered too readily?”

“There are many instances of both. But to my understanding of the theology, it aligns with that of Christ the Lord -- in that forgiveness is to be aspired to.”

“Hm. Are we meant to understand that the fear of consequences is repentance enough, for he who wronged his brother? That he suffered sufficiently in guilt alone?” Sebastian’s voice drips with skepticism. It’s an argument Father Paul hears reasonably often, from Protestants and naive nonbelievers alike. When it’s most troubling, however is from former Catholics. So it still holds weight. 

“I am -- a strong proponent of the idea that the greatest repentance is felt, is wrought out in the soul and is sought by the wrongdoer. But naturally, of course -- that needs to lead to actions. Justice ought to be merciful, yes, and forgiveness cherished. But true justice restores dignity and grants peace to those wronged, or should aspire to that. I believe that God’s justice -- as do many,” Father Paul takes in an impassioned breath, “ But with all that said -- I also don’t see that peace at being at the cost of the wrongdoer. Though I understand the desire for retribution, I know that not to be God’s message. The wrongdoer ought to find healing himself. Through forgiveness or other means. This is at the heart, you see, of why the death penalty is so pathological, why some of us put our bodies on the line to oppose it. The very nature is --”

He stops himself, realizing he’s been near-monologuing. Preaching, but with neither direction nor grace. He blushes. 

  
“My apologies -- I let my thoughts get the better of me, rather lost the thread of our discussion myself.”

“That’s quite all right -- on some level, I suppose, I have what I need from that.”

“You do?” Paul is genuinely surprised, but Sebastian’s nod is earnest and certain. Apparently there is something to be said for the ramblings of foolish men… he shakes his head, prising off a few strawberries young on the bush. He offers them to Sebastian wordlessly, who plucks one carefully with gloved hands. Paul wonders briefly if he cooks with those on, or writes with them, or -- 

\-- a flash of a pile of paperwork, along with a stack of mail comes to his mind. 

“There’s a letter for you, I nearly forgot!”

Sebastian blinks, his eyes wide, “Is there?”

“Yes, my apologies -- no return address, but I’m aware of my brother’s handwriting. In an envelope, not a postcard as he often does --”

“I should like to see it,” Sebastian stands up, all urgency.

“Of course -- we’ll go right away then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dii facientes adiuvant- 'the Gods help those who do', or less literally, the gods help those who help themselves. 
> 
> I write this as a never-been-a-Catholic myself, so if anything seemed totally out of place, please feel free to DM me on sybilius.tumblr. 
> 
> Comments as always, welcome <3


	10. centipede

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also one that I picked at a long time, and am kind of proud of :)

Blondie knows something is wrong as soon as he walks into the gatehouse. 

_ Gloves on the counter, he's not doing the dishes. Something disheveled about the couch, usually the place is immaculate when I come.  _

He closes the heavy wooden door gently, wondering if he should leave. He takes off his jacket carefully. No fire in the hearth either, though there is soup on the stove. That much is familiar. 

"...Angel?" 

"Here," the voice he hears is quiet, possibly with a waver in it. Coming from the bedroom. 

Blondie steels himself. He's been in there a handful of times. Every time before with the acidic sear of jealousy in his chest. That Lent he knew Tuco was spending most nights here. 

_ You've already done your worst there.  _

Somehow that thought is equal parts comforting and sickening. 

The room has the same medieval styling as the north bedroom Blondie remembers so well but-- tempered. Uniform granite instead of carefully curated brickwork, the bedcovers a muted green instead of vivid crimson. 

Angel Eyes, still as the stone of the walls, perched on the edge of the bed. His bare fingers set neatly on his knees, the strain in them just barely visible. He doesn't look up. 

Blondie crosses the room before registering what he's doing, sits on the bed next to Angel.  _ Shit, is this a bad idea?  _ Angel raises his head slowly, meets his gaze. The shadows under his eyes are dark as a bruise. Blondie has to stop himself reaching for Angel's hand. 

"Should I go?" 

Angel flinches his head no. Blondie nods, frozen where he is, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.  _ It's him that's good at the questions.  _

_ I mean, hell, what are you doing here? What makes you possibly think you could help-- _

The thought is blown to the back of Blondie's mind when Angel’s bare hand takes hold of his cheek, and suddenly he’s being kissed with all the ravenous desperation of  _ months _ with barely anything resembling closeness to another person. He almost bites back in response, he's so surprised, but  _ god above _ Angel tastes that same way he always had, responds with that vicious sweetness that Blondie can't help but drink in. How long has it been they both  _ needed  _ this-- 

_ But hell, why now?  _

His hands slow at that question, pulling his lips back as Angel leans closer to him on the bed. It's-- god, if having Angel's hand in his hair was fire at his senses, this is an inferno.  _ Why now-- why do I want to fight this? Why-- _

It's hard to think with Angel's mouth at his throat, hands running down his back. Was he this drunk on everything Angel was, when they'd first met? He tries to remember, pull himself back to the present by contrast. Not focus on his dick growing hard in his jeans, grinding against the sharpness of Angel's hip by pure instinct and desire. 

_ You want him, you need this, you deserve this _ \-- 

He freezes, something in that thought sickeningly familiar. Angel's hands track down to his belt, Blondie grabs them loosely before he can think why.

"Ang--" he barely speaks before he's slammed flat to the surface of the bed, an arm at his throat. 

" _ Che cazzo _ ," he moves his arm before Blondie has time to blink, backing away from the bed. Blondie sits up fast as he dares. He can feel bruises forming on his collarbones. 

"You-- shouldn't-- Angel starts, at first glaring at Blondie, then staring down at the floor, "I could hurt you, you know."

It's that utterly graceless response, the lack of any art or poetry to it that holds Blondie there. He swallows, "Sure, hurt yourself both ways. Make me a martyr or a lover but-- fuck do you think you're doing, Angel?"

"Goddamn you," he near whispers it to his bare hands. Blondie stands up. 

"Listen, just-- stay where you are." 

_ Why aren't you afraid?  _ The thought is so abstract as Blondie crosses to where Angel is standing, just as still as when he'd entered the bedroom. Angel looks up slowly, watching Blondie slip one arm carefully around his waist, the other pulling his shoulders close. 

Angel breathes out, ragged and raw as a waterfall. His shoulders tremble like dry winter leaves.  _ You've got him. Come on.  _

No, he isn't afraid. But he is worried. 

"So. Um. Can you tell me what's going on?" Blondie mumbles in his ear. 

He tries to flinch away, but it's half hearted, "I'm not. Prepared to be particularly useful to you today."

"Couldn't have guessed," Blondie says it dryly, but holds tight to Angel. 

"Doesn't really answer my question." 

Angel exhales again, the tremble running deeper through him.  _ You keep standing here like this, he's either gonna fall apart or snap again.  _

"I…" he starts, the next word muffled against Blondie's shoulder. His voice has a thick quality that splinters in Blondie's chest. 

"C'mon. Let's sit down at least." 

Angel allows himself to be led wordlessly to the couch, Blondie making a split second decision not to settle on the bed. He considers leaving Angel some space, starting a fire-- but he can't tell if it's his own flesh singing for contact or Angel's fingers lightly brushing at his wrist that convinces him now isn't the time to let go. 

His once-lover is a grounding weight, lying overtop with his head couched on Blondie's shoulder. Blondie finds his hands, covers them to settle on the center of his chest like a prayer. Blondie can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, slowing by inches. 

"I certainly didn't expect being held by the reason for my strife to be comforting." 

Blondie doesn't quite know how to take that kind of candidness. The whole situation feels fragile as walking on a frozen lake, any misstep ready to plunge them into icy reality. 

"...I'm glad." 

"Suppose," now that was halfway to cold. Blondie frowns, searching for the right words to say. Somehow. He notices then that Angel's feet are tucked up on the couch, unusually absent from the shoes he wears around the house. Just his dark socks. 

In the end, while he's thinking, it's Angel who speaks again.

"Listen...Blondie. You don't really share blame for this."

"For what?"

"I'm not sure I should say. Insofar as you're involved, it seems unfair to ask much of you. Given the circumstances."

He’s dressing it up in careful words, all that precision and poetry that Blondie realizes, is going to get him all of nowhere in this.  _ Some things you can’t talk your way out of needing. _

_ Or maybe this is what he needs, just saying it. Not pretty. _

"Not sure which of us that makes a hypocrite, but what about this whole thing is fair to you?"

Angel just laughs, a short exhale. Says nothing for a few spaces of breath. 

"That's quite apt," his voice sounds a little bit stronger, with that, "He said once, you were good under pressure. That much is true."

"Tuco...said that?" Blondie can't quite keep the surprise out of his voice. Angel just nods against him.

"It was before."

Before. Before six months ago, which feels like a lifetime for all it's aged Blondie. He remembers how he used to find Tuco sitting exactly where he is now, Duluth slumped against the stone wall across the room.  _ Exactly what you wanted.  _

_ Exactly what you hated him for.  _ Blondie squeezes Angel closer. He's not sure who he means. 

"He sent me a letter. Well. He's sent me more than one. But. He never mentioned before now," Angel pauses, his lips drawn tight before he speaks again, "I have matters I didn't expect to atone for."

"...you? I mean. Well I guess Tuco has got a different kind of...moral stance, what with the --" 

"What is it you're expecting this to be about?" surprise breaks through the heaviness in Angel's voice.

"Um. You do-- did used to kill people for a living."

The dry smile that flickers under Angel’s mustache is almost like him, "Ah. That much, I would have expected him to have left because of -- and long before. No, he -- he's been withholding anger that I took the bullets out of his gun."

Blondie tenses, the memory of Angel pinning him down in a very different way suddenly searing back at him. Shame prickles in his throat, remembering how he'd known that Tuco would be angry, had taunted Angel with that. 

_ God, what the hell was I hoping for then-- _

"He said he was glad you're alive," Angel fills the silence quickly, to reassure. 

"No, no I knew that too. Just. Remembering is all." 

_ Remembering everything about what the hell it was you did.  _

Angel winces, but at least doesn't try to pull away, "I shouldn't have mentioned."

"Why? 

"It hasn't escaped my attention that threatening you that way was likely traumatic. Seeing what I'm asking of you--"

"Jesus Angel, don't start asking me forgiveness. I don't deserve that." 

"Why not? Lord knows I've admitted to far worse and you've found space to find forgiveness in it," there’s irony in Angel’s voice there. 

"When?"

"When we met."

"That was --"  _ a hustle you were meant to believe _ \-- Blondie has to stop himself saying. If nothing else but to stop himself hurting Angel, with the fact that  _ you've always been a liar _ \-- but then, hell. The hustle was too good. Turns out he believes it after all. 

Tuco would laugh at that.

Angel starts to sit up shrinking into himself, “No, I have to —  _ malediozione,  _ what the hell was that?”

He’s flinched back against Blondie, pointing at something along the floor, some movement along the cold stone —

“It’s not a rat, is it?” Blondie  _ loathes _ rats, couldn’t deal with them on the road, but — “no, too small, god it’s fast though. Oh. Just a centipede.”

He lets himself relax before he notices that Angel hasn't relaxed in the slightest, his brow furrowed and fixed on the spindly legs of the creature. When Angel notices him staring, he quickly looks away, drawing his feet closer to his chest.

"Um," Blondie starts, "Do you. Want me to get that?" 

"...if you would."

"Sure." 

This, particularly, getting up while Angel primly unfolds himself into a cross-legged position, eyes fixed on the tiny centipede— that might be more surreal than everything that came before. Well. Not quite. Blondie picks up a glass from the counter, approaching slowly with careful focus.

“Got it,” in its panic the bug skitters right up inside the glass too. He caps it with the hardcover book that’s lying on the counter, opens up the door to the brisk fall air, and lets the tiny thing run out into the frosted grass.

He closes the door, staring for a moment at the way Angel settles his feet on the floor. He feels, absurdly, like he should go find Angel’s shoes. To avoid saying something stupid. 

“So. Uh. Afraid of bugs?” Blondie shouldn’t be making digs, but hell, what else is there to say? 

“Averse. To quickly moving centipedes. Spiders, I have no aversion to,” he replies so tiredly that Blondie feels the humor of the situation bleed out of him, “The list of things which would frighten most people that I can face unflinchingly is long. I’ve never bothered to find resolution for that particular terror. Just efficiently kept it from Rose’s sights.”

Well, if there’s anything that kills a joke, it’s Angel’s self-serious mention of his former boss. 

"S'okay, I don't really like rats. Never have. I get it," the words tumble out of Blondie’s mouth too fast, too clumsy, "Tuco used to chase ‘em out if we had them." 

"Ah." that Angel hasn’t moved much from the couch, Blondie takes as an invitation to sit back down next to him again. He thinks about wrapping an arm around Angel, almost wants to. But stays where he is. 

"He'll forgive you, you know." 

"You sound so sure."

"I know him."

Angel turns to him with a long, flat look, " _ Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare _ . I could choose to take vacant comfort from that or I could choose to give in to the desire to get angry with you, and I'm not fond of either outcome at the moment." 

_ Right. You gave up being able to say anything on Tuco's account. Don't forget that. _

"...yeah, all right. I don't know him anymore. Okay," on another night, that could have been everything they talked circles around.  _ Not tonight.  _ Blondie stands up, and a moment after Angel with him. 

"Regardless. I don't think anyone could have known to calm me down the way you did," he catches Blondie’s arm, and that surprises him. Angel hasn’t reached for him. Not even when he was making such precise declarations of love those weeks before — it was Blondie who came to him. 

"And I took out the centipede," Blondie adds, before he can stop himself. And it's worth it, that stupid instinct, because Angel almost smiles, still holding on to him. With one bare head, he coaxes Blondie’s head closer, presses a kiss on his forehead like a wax seal. 

"Thank you,” he pulls away, “I'm sorry to ask you to go. But most of this reckoning -- that's to be my own. As is yours."

"You gonna be okay?" Blondie asks, even as he crosses to the door, takes his denim jacket down from the coat hook. 

“ _ A goccia a goccia s'incava la pietra, _ ” Angel is checking on the soup, which he can suppose is a good sign.

_ But hell, if he doesn’t let up on you —  _

“If that’s something glib — I mean, hell, just promise me you won’t get like that again. You’ll tell me first, let me do what I can. You were scaring me a bit there,” it feels like a lot for Blondie to ask, but it gives Angel pause. He sets down the spoon, walks to the door with a nod that’s halfway to shaken. 

“All right. I’ll come to you. I promise you that.”

“Thank you,” Blondie says it softly, then presses to ask, just as he opens the door to leave, “What did that mean -- the Italian?”

Simple question. Angel looks at him a long time when he asks.

“It was about time,” is all Angel says. Nothing more than that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare - Any man can make a mistake; only a fool keeps making the same one.
> 
> A goccia a goccia s'incava la pietra- Constant dropping wears away the stone. Only really about time in a metaphorical sense, but Angel's headspace in this chapter...yeah. 
> 
> Angel's turn to be a mess, hah.


	11. kitchen knife

There's some variation on a theme in this. 

But by now, the meager noon light from the attic window has turned to near-sunset. I’ve lingered on this enough, in my small and dust-laden sanctuary. I sign my name carefully on the return letter. The third draft, and given how little it's changed, it will have to be the last. 

_Dear Tuco,_

Is it too formal? The letter it responded to simply began with _Angel Eyes._ And then with the line that made my heart clench with equal parts hope and dread: _I keep wanting to see you but there's something still eating me up inside._

_I think about seeing you near constantly. But I understand now why that might be a fraught proposition._

That’s as mildly as I can manage it. The truth is the ache in me is deeper than hunger, deeper even than longing. It’s something to endure. I had forgotten, after a few months in the gatehouse, what that meant. Much as the following line in his letter, now committed to memory. _Never wanted Blondie dead, but I needed to keep myself alive then. And now I guess. That's why I had the gun._

I reply to that with a simple:

_I understand._

I understand the repercussions of the clicking, its horrible emptiness. I grip the pen tightly, still certain in my convictions and his that this was the best outcome. Tuco would not have done well with blood on his hands. Least of all that of a lover. 

His all-too familiar anxious tic: _I keep checking it now, waking up in the night to do it._

That, I understand all too well. _Maledizione_ . How horrifying that I’d managed to pass such a habit on to him. As much as he seemed to understand, saying only: _Listen, I know you were trying to protect me and him._ Meant to appease, and then -- the truth: _but I'm still mad as hell you did it like that._

_I regret that I have little to say in apology. There’s some irony in my knowing the weight of taking a life._

Then he'd added, almost shy: _Sorry, I guess. Hope you're taking care of Blondie._ I suppose I could say I resent that. The implication that I was doing what he'd set out for me. That taking care of the man who had so thoroughly hurt us both was so natural. 

_I am sorry the circumstances have brought us here. And if the situation was any less acute, I would be sorry for circumventing your agency. But I will respect your wishes on the subject, live or die by your hand or his, should we ever meet again._

_I remain yours,_

_Angel Eyes_

I fold it twice, unable to look at it any further. I’ve wallowed in its implications enough. The creak of the stairs as I descend is somehow grounding, with the bright approach of the kitchen in waiting. I somehow feel Tuco would approve of setting dinner as a priority, after all this. 

All the ways in which this wasn’t inevitable circle my head like flies. I take out the brightly colored fruits, the meat, set the oven to heating. This is all I can do, for that matter. I catch sight of my reflection in the thick glass of the window. No use looking when I could be chopping garlic. No use at all. 

A soft knock comes to the gatehouse door sooner than I expect.

"Come in." 

I don't look up from the red peppers I've pulled from the oven, blackened and steaming. 

"Am I early?" Blondie studies the stove carefully.

"I'm running a little later. If you don't mind waiting, you can. It will only be about ten minutes," I take the santoku knife out of the block, slicing the softened pepper into strips. Blondie is still hanging by the door, watching the blade work. 

That gives me pause. Over the course of the last month I've become more attuned to his reactions than I ever had been in the six months that we'd first spent together. The wariness in his shaded eyes-- how had I never seen that before?

But then, _acclinis falsis animus meliora recusat_. It isn't a simple matter, to seek truth when near-willfully believing a lie. Those words aren’t quite right. I let the knife down carefully, looking him in the eye. 

"This is a difficult question for me to ask, since I--" the correct words are difficult to find, here, "Avoided believing it to be true for so long. Even after I had unmistakable evidence that you weren't a killer."

"Yeah?" 

"When did you stop being afraid of me?"

"Oh, um. Yeah. That's a question."

"As I've said, you're free to refuse to answer," I turn back to my work, now near regretting the question. 

"Well. What makes you think I've stopped?" 

Ah. I put the knife down carefully, the peppers now evenly sliced. 

"Point taken, I suppose. But you're still here. I should think you know by now that if you tried to leave, I wouldn't stop you--"

"-- I couldn't --" 

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, "Wouldn't let you come back, either, but if it came to that --" 

"Okay, let's -- I didn't want to talk about --" he breaks off, looking frustrated, "Let me start over."

"Did you stay, because you were afraid I'd kill you otherwise?" now that, I can't abide by letting lie. 

"No but I -- wasn't sure you wouldn't," he winces even as he says it. I shouldn't have let that reaction show on my face, should keep my serene distance for this. 

"I--"

"Look, Angel -- I know you wouldn't hurt me for this. S'just. A habit I never shook off. Thinking that was on the table," he takes off his jacket, finally, takes a seat at the end of the table as he has often. 

I press my lips together tightly. Yes, he's right, and no words will salve the fact that the lethal capabilities I possess have been used extensively. The blood on my hands could run rivers. No, that's not something I can talk away. 

It's far from the only night we've eaten in silence, but I can tell he's waiting for an opening to ask something of me, rather than for my questions. _La troppa bonezza finisce nella monnezza_ _._ I offer no quarter. 

At least not until we've taken a seat by the fire, and I catch his hand before he takes a seat on the floor, pulling him on to the couch beside me. He seems surprised, pleasantly so. I suppose I haven't got much I can say, so instead I tentatively weave an arm around his waist, rest my head on his shoulder. He squeezes my leg, so tight it's almost bracing. 

"So, um. Do you want to talk? You've seemed kind of off since-- you got that letter a few days ago."

"I've composed a reply," I manage to keep any clipped anger out of my voice. As it is, I'm not angry with him. Not now, "I made a mistake, you see. I didn't pay attention sufficiently. With him, and I'm doing the same with you."

"Oh hell, I don't feel that way. You shouldn't," he murmurs the last words.

"No?" it comes out uncertain, rather than accusing. Maybe it's his warmth. 

"I mean, I said sometimes I'm scared of you because you asked, sure. But I don't think there's anything I can ask you to do differently on that."

"There's always something." 

He hesitates, his voice low beside my face, "Maybe. Cost might be too high. I dunno."

"How so do you mean?"

"Doing-- what you did -- It was your whole life Angel. I don't -- want you to… stop mentioning that to me. Hell, sometimes I want to hear about it. Might be stupid, but it reminds me of a movie." 

I half shrug, a smile coming to my lips.

"Come on, you can say it's stupid. I know you're thinking it," he turns his head to nudge his nose against my head. 

"A bit. _Cuilibet fatuo placet sua calva_ ," a small, involuntary exhale escapes me. There's something new in that. 

"But I can't argue with results. The -- perception of being heard, by someone who by all accounts should be horrified by what I have to tell -- it's a rare and far more meaningful thing than I would give it credit for. I'm certain it's what I loved you for to begin with."

"You really wish I'd never lied to you in the first place?" He asks it so quietly, every word identical to the accusation I'd spat at him the first night spent here. I've a strange feeling he was trying to make a similar point to me then. I was simmering in the frustrations of the point he was missing. 

"We were both so cruel then," I reply softly. 

"Yeah."

The weight of apology hangs heavy in the air, yet neither of us speak. I adjust my head to lean on his shoulder, listening to his pulse. Even then. Even then it had seemed like theatrics, that it was only a matter of time before he'd see reason. It's astounding how hopeful that seems now, that ridiculous adage, _Gloriosum est iniurias oblivisc_ _i_. Almost naive. 

"I don't know, is the truth of it. I don't think about what might have been, at least with respect to that. It's done." 

"What do you think about, with what might have been?" 

It sounds like it's hard to ask for him, expecting the worst. And there are more than a thousand ways to be cruel in answering that honestly. But the one that haunts me the most happens not to be. 

"This gatehouse-- yes, I chose it to keep you and Tuco safe, yes it's failures there I dwell on -- but I'd originally envisioned such a space as somewhere my mentor could be safe. As such, I think about her being her frequently. Had she lived that long."

"Oh," it's not the answer he was expecting, I can tell, "I'm sorry she didn't." 

I wave my gloved hand, vaguely resigned, "The outcome as it was seemed inevitable. She was growing purposefully careless. I couldn't think how to stop it. "

I pause, studying the surroundings, the altogether unexpected warmth I find myself couched in. Mere months ago I couldn't imagine finding any comfort here. Or anyplace else. 

"Perhaps that was naive. That's the greatest might have been. Surely, with all that's passed between us, and here we are, surely her death could have been avoided somehow."

"Fuck." 

"Something wrong?"

"I just. I dunno. I think I told you once to me, seemed inevitable that I'd throw it all to hell, with you, with Tuco. I don't-- think about the possibility that I could have. Not done that."

"It's done," that's simple, easy to close on that. We can no more go back to that moment than I can make the crumbling logs in the fire whole again. 

"You know a few weeks back, when I asked you why you started this whole thing? I really thought you were going to say because you had no other options," he stares at the fire, eyes glazed and dull when he says it. I watch the flames jump. 

"...mm. I suppose that's one way I could look at it. I may have half considered such a narrative in moments. But that's also done, and I'm glad of it. It is as I've said-- you've had moments where my faith has been rewarded."

I can feel him tensing beside my cheek, the cords and muscles of his neck shifting. I lift my head, a question in my eyes. He exhales, shakes his head. 

"What if I get scared I'm gonna fuck it up again? I'm more scared of that than I ever was of you I think."

I let my head back down, "We do what we can. You talk to me if that fear starts up again."

"Alright. Alright." He hasn't relaxed any, but I don't think he's dismissing it either. I simply brush my bare fingers along the pulse of his neck. The gatehouse is quiet, the fire is warm. There's no better place to let these things settle. 

"Are you afraid?" 

"Of?"

"Going back to killing people."

I hum behind him, all melancholy. "I wish I could say yes. _Malum consilium quod mutari non potest._ In truth, I am only afraid of Rose discovering my ruse."

"Ruse?" Blondie sits up slightly, confusion dancing on his brow.

I let out a sharp breath, realizing I never spoke of this to him. Where to begin. 

"I-- it was necessary, when I left, to. Cover my tracks. For your safety, for mine."

"...how so?"

"Functionally, to Rose, and to anyone who would ask, I am dead. I -- framed it as a suicide. Susan is the only one who knows."

"You really can't go back," he murmurs, "And you knew that when you met me, and I --"

"Stop. Stop, it's done."

He takes a moment with this, leaves my side, add a log to the fire. Then he settles next to me again before speaking, "Well. You've made it this far and I'm damn glad of it."

“Mm,” I suppose that’s my cue to refrain, then. Too many stories and the fear will only root itself deeper-- 

"Can I ask -- how did you do that? Must have a lot of details to cover."

I smile gently, in spite of myself. That ear for a story, for the fantasy and fiction of a life he wished he might have -- well if it serves us both, to indulge him. It's an improvement over anger, over pity. Perhaps it's the best I could ever hope for.

"You see, the most difficult and essential part to is fake a dental record…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tfw talking about your killer past with your boyfriend who caused you Infinite Strife... >:)


	12. whiskers

_ Hey, hey? What kind of hustle do you think it is you’re pulling here? _

Blondie sets his teeth against the accusation in his mind. It’s playful, sure -- but it has to come in his voice. After all those times he took odd jobs for the sake of them both.  _ Now, I gotta do it for me. _

Or something like that. He slows the drive down to a putter. He’d felt guilty even asking after Angel’s Datsun, wishing he had something of his own to drive into town. But this trip should help that. Honest work. As long as he’s staying. As long as he’s not a priest, he can’t ask Pablo to let him live there for nothing. Nor does he want to darken Angel’s door any more than he already does.  _ Well. You know he wants you there, leastways at night.  _

Point is, whiling the day away watching movies and doing hell else to earn his keep sets his teeth on edge. 

_ Sounds like the fantasy you used to talk big about, eh, Blondie? _   


Blondie wishes the voice in his memory was less cheerful. The voice laughs in answer. He probably deserves that. 

As the glinting windows of the shops roll by, Blondie keeps his eyes open for a sign. Nothing on the local restaurant, nor the barber -- though that one is probably for the better. He slows when he sees a watchmaker’s shop, expensive gold and  _ Quartz! _ advised in the window. An image flashes into his head, himself in the mirror, a fine tailored suit, and the stubble shorn off of him. It’s different. Maybe that’s what makes his skin crawl. 

He pulls the car in to park, wishing he’d had something better to dress in. But it was enough just to ask Angel for the car, admit to what he wanted it for.  _ I need to have something to do -- something that’s mine _ , he said. Angel seemed to understand that, and gave him the car keys without question. He hadn’t thought to ask for a nicer shirt. 

He pulls the dusty leather hat a little lower over his head in the bright autumn sunlight, wondering if he should take it off before he goes in to ask after the  _ Help Wanted  _ sign on the door. He takes it off to study it, dusting it off a little. It’s been since that disastrous meat factory job that he’s had honest work -- and even then, that was Tuco’s cousin that got them the job. He didn’t have to interview for it.

Well. Only way forward is to hit the pavement. 

Only as soon as he starts to cross the road, he hears a yell coming from the west. A man in a lurid yellow vest is clumsily bolting towards a tiny orange kitten, making a break for freedom. On instinct, Blondie ducks down to his knees, scooping up the little escapee in his hat. The man stumbles to a halt, while Blondie tentatively lifts up his passenger with the hat tucked shut. There isn’t too much of a struggle. The man mops at his sweaty brow, breathing a sigh of relief. 

“Well I have to thank you sir, that was some quick thinking. One of the kids was eyeing up that kitten, and she got away from us. I had to wrestle out from behind the counter, thought I was going to lose her. She can be quick when she wants to be. I’m from the pet shop there, right this way,” the man gestures to a bright red sign two doors down from the watch shop.  _ Cal’s Pet Emporium!  _ When they get closer, Blondie notices there’s a  _ Help Wanted _ sign in the window. 

_ Wouldn’t you know it _ . 

The kitten, whose name is Louise, or just Lou, seems contented enough when he opens up his hat indoors. She even nuzzles his finger a tiny bit when he sits down on a wooden chair by the door, her whiskers tickling at the nicotine stains. 

“She really does like you huh? Got a way with animals?”

“Guess so, yeah. You looking for someone to work the store?” Blondie casts a glance around. It’s small, but packed, cheerful blue fish tanks on the one side, some cages along the back with small mews coming from it. The animals seem happy enough. 

“Oh! Oh, I am but I can only offer part-time. I was expecting one of the school kids-- but never mind, you’ve already interviewed, clearly! Any animals you’re afraid of? Course, I’ll understand if you’re looking for something more permanent --”

“Part-time is fine,” Blondie churns through what he said, trying to follow any questions, “and uh -- rats, I dunno I could handle those--”

“Oh, not a problem -- small town like this, people tend to see rats as pests in the yard and the like,” the man ushers Lou into a small crate, where she settles in to a blanket pile, “We haven’t even gotten mice in. Cats, dogs, few budgies and lovebirds -- well, I’m getting ahead of myself, maybe I could give you a bit of a tour tomorrow? Or if you’d like to wander around?”

“Sure, I can do that, uh,” he casts a glance around the room, “What time tomorrow?”

“Shop opens at 8 sharp, we’ll see how you do with the morning run -- say, what’s your name, I should have asked! I’m Cal, it’s pleasure to meet you, hire you, you know.”

“Uh. You can call me Joe.” 

“Well, Joe. Thanks for your help today,” Mart nods once and he shakes his hand, and blessedly bustles off with the kitten to the back room. Blondie breathes out. Was that easier than he remembered?

It was easier than he imagined.  _ Feels better than working at an expensive shop.  _ More like something he could do, for now. Maybe not forever. He turns the key in the ignition, setting his gaze back on the road out of town. 

Autumn was a ripe time for new hustles -- or old ones in a new place. Something they could hunker down and count on for winter. It wasn't like the fierce promise of spring tumbling in to summer, the conviction that ‘this year might be different’. 

_ Always felt like a surrender. He'd have to talk you out of moping, tease you out of it. _

_ I’ll be doing that myself, from now on _ , Blondie figures. Or at least -- he didn’t want Angel to have to. There's something familiar and yet -- unfamiliar in that way of thinking. Sometimes when the summer's hustle had gone sour, he'd catch himself wondering if things would have been different with him alone. And then hating even wishing for that. 

_ Last thing I ever should have wanted. But it would have made some things easier. Easier to be worse.  _

It's the harder thing, to take the north turn at the highway towards the priory. But he does it just the same. The gatehouse waits, solemn yet almost cheery in answer. He parks out front, wondering if Angel would take an afternoon call. Then his neck prickles as he realizes he's not quite alone. 

“You’re back,” Wallace frowns. He's got a full basket of apples from the nearby trees. 

“You’re -- surprised.”

"I expected to not see you again for a long time."

Blondie tilts his head, not sure how to respond. The wind whispers through the autumn leaves, chattering with their dryness as they tumble. When Wallace just gives him an unflinching stare, he adds, "The car is Angel’s.”

Wallace makes a disbelieving click of his tongue, “When are you going to leave to join Benedicto again, Joseph?”

That hits him in the chest for the first time today-- maybe in a while. The pain has been more of a dull ache lately. Something to endure. He clears his throat. 

“I got a job.”

“You did -- what?”

“I got a job, at a pet shop. In town. I’m not -- going back after Tuco. What I did -- that’s done," he says quietly, Angel's own words tasting bittersweet on his lips. He hopes it doesn't sound like it was Tuco's fault. He adds, "He just -- he needed to go and I have to let him."

Putting it mildly. Hiding behind half-truths.  _ It’s not my truth to tell, with Tuco between us. _ And if Tuco ever saw Wallace again, Blondie is pretty sure he wouldn’t want him to know. 

"Done," Wallace's expression darkens, " After all those years together, you're to abandon him for --"

"You don't know what I did," Blondie cuts him off. His heart beats in his throat. Wallace’s brow knits.  _ He’s probably not going to drop it _ . 

“You’ve had forgiveness for each other in plenty before,” Wallace says, somehow at once serious and mild. Blondie shakes his head, their shared teenagehood flashing before his eyes. God. That was years ago. 

“This isn’t some kind of choir-room scuffle, Wallace. Trust me.”

He frowns, stubbornness in his every muscle, then says something Blondie doesn't expect, "That may have been an idle, sinful gamble when we were children, but I always took it to mean we would take care of them. You looking out for him, and myself for Father Paul."

Blondie blinks, the faded memory coming back to him in sepia. Making blasphemous bets on scapulars, claiming it was about fucking. And Wallace here thinking it was about some kind of promise. He realizes with a jolt that he hadn't realized Wallace meant it that way then. Hadn't realized  _ he  _ meant it that way, then and maybe just before coming here. 

Still. Something about it doesn’t sit right with him, the way Wallace says it. 

"You don't think we owe it to them to make their own mistakes? Tuco made a choice. Probably was the right one. I have to respect it."

Wallace pinches his lips together, looking sour but -- not ready to say anything against it. Blondie is about to turn to go when his would-be childhood friend speaks again. 

“Between you, and the Lord then.”

“Yeah. That’s how it is,” Blondie exhales. Not relief, but -- it’s done. All of it. 

Wallace steps forward, still pushing, “How...what was the nature of this transgression?”

Blonde waves his hand, almost helpless, “Let’s just say it’d be fair if he never wanted to see me again.” 

“I...see,” Wallace replies. He’s taking it seriously now, at least. Seriously enough to know he might never know.

_ Might be fair if he didn’t want to see you either _ . 

Blondie grimaces. He’d expected that in the first few weeks from Angel, waiting for it like the satisfaction of a slap to the face.  _ Which was maybe stupid too _ . 

“You’re doing penance,” Wallace says finally. His stormlike expression reminds Blondie of when they came to the priory, and Wallace expected nothing but more trouble for Father Paul.  _ We weren’t that, at least. Too busy making our own damn trouble _ . 

“I am,” Blondie replies, finally.  _ That’s not a lie. _

“Alright.”

He turns on his heel, and starts back in the direction of the priory proper. Blondie sighs, shading his eyes at the bright sun. Starts his own path to the gatehouse. It isn’t until that evening, he finds his way back. 

Blondie says a small prayer at the chapel, light filtering in through the dull stained glass from the setting sun. A prayer, not to be chosen above Tuco, or even for Tuco to be chosen above him. But for the grace to accept whatever the outcome would be. 


	13. red telephone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time; I neglected an important detail two chapters ago -- sort of cavelierly glazed over the idea that Blondie knew about Angel faking his death, but when I wrote it I was assuming that it would come out in _bleeding_ , and I didn't revise that chapter closely enough to catch that (Angel, as it turns out, was NOT interested in telling Blondie ANYTHING then). The end of Chapter 11 has been retconned a little, to fit that in. I wanted to get that out there since it's been chewing on Angel for a few chapters with regards to Tuco, and that sort of finally comes out here. 
> 
> Anyways, hey, have some feelings *throws this at you*
> 
> Huge shoutout to dansedan/kerugiall.tumblr/Dan for tuning up my Spanish for Tuco here :) <333

"Sebastian!"

I look up from the red-and-gold piles of leaves, Blondie smirking gently beside me. It’s near-sunset, the fall weather nipping at my cheeks almost playfully. I rake the bundle I’ve been working through with a flourish. The priory may ask us for very little upkeep, but that doesn’t mean I ought not to return the favor of a fresh basket of apples Father Paul brought for me. I may not share his faith, but I do share his home. That warrants niceties, if not kindness. _Ex granis fit acervus._

“Never thought I’d see my given name be considered less laughable than my false one.” I reply quietly to Blondie. 

“Didn’t say that,” Blondie murmurs, still smiling out of the corner of his mouth. 

“What is it?” I call back to the robed figure that approaches us from the priory proper. 

“Call for you,” Father Paul slows his pace, “It’s not urgent, but I thought you would like to know quickly. Benedicto would like to speak with you.”

I freeze, my eyes going instinctively to Blondie. He leans on his rake, his brow knitting. I used to fear him running, used to expect he would wilt and vanish like the September leaves, if he lasted the summer. I haven’t considered that for more than a month. And now, that fear has me by the throat. 

“Go on,” he says, 

“...wait for me at the gatehouse,” I say, and I don’t leave until I see his serious, yet certain nod. 

What could this mean, _dio bestia_ , why now? Should I have expected this? I was waiting for another letter, he sent so many the last time we were apart. _The last time_ \-- as if there were any similarities, as if rhyme or reason of any kind could be ascribed to this --

“You’re quiet,” Father Paul murmurs, the echoes of our feet on the priory stone the only thing to fill the silence. 

“Considering the timing,” I say abruptly. Father Paul shrugs halfway, a gesture that is more his brother than it is him.

“I used to wonder about that too, with him. I can’t say it’s ever meant much.”

He gestures into his cheery, yet messy office. A bright red telephone lies off the hook, in front of a vinyl-covered chair. I pick it up gingerly, not quite believing it as I look Father Paul in the eye.

“I’ll leave you two to speak,” he nods once before he closes the door. I slide down to a seat, fumbling for my pipe in my coat pocket. Anything to calm my nerves, _maledizione_. My heartbeat is worse than the second time I met Rose. Ridiculous. I wet my lips, put the phone to my ear. 

“Tuco?” I say, disbelief straining my voice. 

“Hey hey! Yeah, I um -- I got set up with a phone, here and thought, well, I got your last letter forwarded from Pablo, so! You don’t have a phone at the gatehouse yet, do you? Pablo didn’t say,” he babbles, and I nearly cough with relief as I get the pipe in my mouth. 

“No, I -- I had no intention to, god, I--” I run a hand over my scalp, sinking into the chair, “Here? Where are you?”

“Kinda got turned around and blew past Sonora, I had a -- detour. But I’m in Chihuahua now. _La gran ciudad_. Suits me. Like home but, not quite, you know?”

A mirage of old images of Mexico float through my mind -- some which I hope he never has to see, but most, beautiful and warm. If memory serves, Chihuahua would be crowded and bustling. I find myself wondering how much it’s like Mexico City, if whatever tiny apartment he’s rented is anything like the long brick-and-shuttered architecture.

“You sound well,” I manage a moment later, trying to tie together the past with his present. 

“ _Mierda_ , you sound like I called a dead man walking,” he pauses while I huff a small laugh, “I got your letter.”

“I’m glad. Pablo wasn’t sure the address would hold.”

“Not -- that one, but I did get that one. I mean. The one in my bag.”

 _Oh_ . Perhaps this was the answer to _why now_. A home, a reason to pick through the Duluth’s safe confines, bring out those travel brochures he’d shown to me once by firelight. I’d imagined this moment for so long, how he might learn of what it took to get free of that past. Whether that would mean anything to him. 

“You really are -- dead.”

I purse my lips around the pipe, all the well-rehearsed conversations utterly silent in the back of my mind, “In the eyes of those that would wish me so, yes.”

“And they haven’t --”

“-- not as far as I can tell, nothing.”

He exhales a long time. I wonder, perhaps, if this is the sole reason why he called. Misplaced worry, falling back into old habits. Worrying about me, alive. No more, no less. Perhaps I’ll take what I can get. 

“It’s so good to hear from you,” I add, a gentle encouragement. 

“I miss you,” his voice is hoarse and honeyed on the other end, and suddenly it’s intoxicating.

“Come home,” I say, without thinking about it. 

“Home,” the sharp exhale on the other line sounds like a candle being snuffed. When he speaks again, a moment later, there is no teasing in it, no languid sunshine nor winking aimless sky. 

“What if I said, I didn’t want to come back if he was still there?”

Silence. I feel the cold plastic of the phone on my fingertips, a strange buzzing gathering in my ears. As if I’m back, all at once, in a nameless alleyway with a gun in my hand, in a cold spring morning with splinters in my fingers-- and no word of comfort, no poetry or pithy phrase to help me understand the exact nature to which, I have once again, chosen the wrong path. 

“Angel?”

“...look after each other, you said, Tuco -- I thought you wanted -- fucking _Christo,_ I--” my throat feels like it’s choking me, arresting any pointless words from spilling out. All the words I _had_ with Blondie, running rivers like blood through my veins, how could he ask me to throw all that to hell? I blink. My cheeks are wet. 

“Um, shit, eh- _andas bien?_ ”

“No. No.”

“Listen, sorry I called, I --”

“Please don’t hang up,” I manage.

“Okay.” 

I can’t think what else to say, though. It’s been nothing but truth, ripped and coaxed and glaring like a stain on tile, like the outline of a man. I tilt my head back. The tile on the ceiling looks back formlessly, a cheap and ugly addition with none of the priory’s history. I’ve tried to come by everything I have had with both of them honestly. Perhaps I should have lied. 

And yet, here I am. Never learning that lesson. 

“I-- don’t think I can do that,” I say, and at least it comes out steady, “I’m -- sorry.”

A beat of silence on the other line. My fingertips lightly tap the bowl of the pipe and come back singed. I take it out of my mouth. 

“Right -- I didn’t...want that, I just, I don’t want to be there yet. I didn’t mean it, I just --”

I cut him off, “Can we-- will you still be at this number? Perhaps tonight? Tomorrow?”

“...yeah.” 

“ _Creo que tengo que irme. Lo siento_ ,” my tongue trips over the syllables, has it truly been that long?

“Okay. Okay, I -- _Espero tu llamada_. Pablo knows the number,” he starts to say something else, then seems to think better of it. 

The other line goes dead, not quite quick enough to be a slam. I hold it to my ear a moment longer, hardly daring to breathe, what was it I just let go of? How long was that? Long enough for Blondie to decide he should run? I set the receiver back clumsily, pulling myself to my feet and brushing my cheek. There’s too much at stake for my resolve to crumble, just as then, just as now, once more I cross the priory’s halls quick as I dare, hoping against hope not to run into Father Paul. 

When I reach the safety of the courtyard, it seems notably darker than before. _Nescis quid serus vesper vehat._ I wish I’d kept up the habit of wearing a wristwatch. My eyes wander to the west to see the Datsun, at least, but that’s poor comfort, he has other options. I fumble for the gatehouse key, would it be locked regardless of if he were there or no? I take a deep breath and push the heavy door open, my eyes scanning the cavernously _empty_ kitchen, couch, the soup is steaming on the stove, did I leave that too?

“Angel?” Blondie, walking out of the bedroom carrying a few spare logs. The relief that hits me is nearly dizzying. I focus on unbuttoning my jacket, nodding once. He sets the wood by the fire without adding it to the coals, immediately walking towards me. 

“You look like shit,” he says carefully. When I can’t manage to say anything, he adds, “You want me to go?”

I shake my head, almost lurching into his embrace. It’s times like these that his inclination towards wordless comfort is a gift beyond reckoning. He moves his hands up to my back, brushing the back of my neck with familiar calloused fingertips. 

“I’m not leaving you,” I whisper, apropos of nothing. Another honest thing I shouldn’t have said. But it’s too late and I can feel in the muscles gathering in Blondie’s back the way he’s putting the pieces together. 

“Oh. Shit. Did he--” 

“He said he didn’t mean it,” I cut him off helplessly. Blondie is already shaking his head. 

“He probably did. That’s okay. I -- that’s what I expected,” he sounds so resigned. Months ago I would have seen that as progress, letting go of the entitlement and disregard that led us to this. And perhaps I still believe that. It just aches in my chest to hear it. I pull back, cupping his cheek carefully.

“I don’t know. I think _he_ doesn’t know,” I murmur. His eyes, now jade green by the warm light, are almost impossible to look at. I force myself not to look away. He’s here. He deserves that much from me. I swallow what I can, try to speak again, “God, I thought this-- peace for us was what he wanted for so long. Now I get to find out the desire was mine all along.”

 _“Acclinis falsis animus meliora recusat,_ ” he quotes gently, and I know he means it as comfort. And somehow, it means to be. 

“You do listen,” I murmur. He smells of coffee and the petrichor of the priory basement. I wonder distantly why he still sleeps there. 

“I knew that one before.”

I give in to the exhaustion that settles in my bones, rest my forehead on his cheek. Just to hear his pulse, jackrabbit and so close. All I can do is affirm it. “I meant what I said.”

“Let’s sit?”

I nod, pulling myself away just for a moment to turn the stove off. I’m not sure when we’ll be eating the soup. I don’t think I could swallow much right now. We arrange ourselves close on that black velvet couch, limbs all tangled as if he’s as anxious as I to feel the proof of presence. His fingers squeeze mine tightly as he gathers himself to speak. 

“Listen, I -- I can’t keep you two apart, I can’t. I’m going to carry this but I can’t carry that, too, Angel, I --”

“Don’t ask me to choose. Not now, not --” _not ever_ I want to say, but I always seem to be asking for so much. 

“Not what I was going to say. Look, you call him back, okay?” he cradles either side of my neck, just gently. Old instincts warn that it’s a dangerous position to be in, so vulnerable. I could almost laugh at the errant thought, _there are worse things than having your neck snapped._

“And say what? He won’t come home,” I look away, a self-conscious shiver going through me at the realization I referred to the gatehouse as _home_ twice now.

“We never really had one, yeah.” Blondie murmurs consideringly. He rubs his thumb in circles on my cheek, “Could you go to where he is?”

“...If this is your way of forcing a choice without my consent, not a chance,” I reply. He tilts his head, all confusion. 

“You want to see him.”

“Not if I come back and you’ve gone,” I shake my head. He closes his mouth, nodding once. I should ask. He’s come this far. 

“Can you promise that you’ll stay?”

He takes a deep breath, “I think so.”

“Think isn’t good enough. I -- I don’t know. I don’t know that I’d risk --” I stop without finishing the sentence, with such pointless confessions as: _you_ , or _losing you_ , or losing everything, it all runs together. I don’t have many more leaps of faith left in me. I thought he would be the last.

He keeps his gaze even and steely, “I swear to you. I won’t run. I can’t. Not after this.”

“Okay.”

“Call him back,” he says again, insistent. There’s concern in that too, not just for me. Perhaps he knows better than I, what the abrupt cutoff, the wait would do to Tuco. 

“Give it a moment.”

What would last, is worth waiting for. 

We manage something resembling a dinner before I gather myself enough to cross back to the priory, calmly ask Father Paul if he’d ring Tuco again. He doesn’t hide his surprise too well, but he asks no questions either, simply passes me a number scribbled down on heavy parchment. I dial it with steady hands once the door closes behind me. 

It rings only once.

“Tuco?”

“Angel! _Que bonito oír tu voz de nuevo_ , ” he laughs, almost nervously. I sit up, not wanting to mince words. 

“What if I could come see you? Wherever home is for you now?” 

He replies with no hesitation, “Eh? Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation stuff:
> 
>  _Ex granis fit acervus._ Every little bit helps. Latin.
> 
>  _La gran ciudad._ The big city. Spanish.
> 
>  _andas bien_ You good? Spanish (Mexican, colloquial, ty Dan <3)
> 
>  _Creo que tengo que irme. Lo siento_ \- I think I need to go. I'm sorry. Spanish.
> 
>  _Espero tu llamada_ \- I'll wait for your call. Spanish. 
> 
> _Acclinis falsis animus meliora recusat_ \- The mind intent on false appearances refuses to admit better things. Latin. 
> 
> So, feelings, huh? 
> 
> Comments are always loved and welcome <3


	14. a letter (intermezzo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought maybe it was worth adding the letter that was in Tuco's Duluth.

_Tuco,_

_Shall I begin by saying I reread many of your own letters, trying to find the right words to articulate what I need to say? I can appreciate them far more now, both for their skill in persuasion, and for the sincerity that I was unwilling to let myself believe then. There are so many gifts in those letters. I wish I could say the same of this one._

_It isn't -- so much that I lack the courage to speak to you of what I've done plainly, but rather -- I fear I never made it clear to you exactly what it is I've done, in such a way that you felt you could refuse me, should that be what you decide._

_When I came to your brother's priory, took possession of the gatehouse, in no uncertain words I told you I'd left what fortune I'd accrued. That I'd left my work behind. Both of these are most emphatically true._

_What I failed to mention was the manner in which I'd accomplished this -- for that omission, I offer some apologies. Blondie took what little he knows poorly. It wouldn't be at all unreasonable for you to react much the same. But Blondie may_

_I'm avoiding the subject. Let me be clear:_

_The man known as Angel Eyes is dead, for all those who ever gave orders to kill would know. I don't wish to give details on how it was made to look, nor to belabor the point of how dangerous it would be, not simply for myself, but for you and Blondie both, were my ruse to be discovered._

_But you should know nonetheless._

_I will never be sorry for what I have done in that capacity-- any of it. But I feel I've never adequately given you the chance to walk away from it, finding myself hidden in truths thought to be lies, and you backed into blind alleys bourne of love for your family and Blondie both._

_I hope that you know I would offer you that freedom, in any ways I could, in lieu of anything that could be called remorse._

_Should we not see each other again; know that I love you._

_Angel Eyes_

_P.S. if you have need of the bullets in your gun, I've left them in the concealed pocket of this bag._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man. like. those boys. all of them. just all waiting to be left, huh?


	15. tie-dye curtain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild Tuco appears!
> 
> I wrote this more than a year ago, after I flew to Mexico! I wasn't in Chihuahua though, sadly, so any vibes I'm getting from there are from videos and research :)

The cool of the tiny hatch of a window offers some respite for my fevered thoughts. 

Not that I let my head rest there for long. Airplanes are dangerously confined spaces, and though the number of witnesses makes it unlikely for an attack, my options for self defense are similarly limited. I scan the seats across for nearly the hundredth time, keeping my eyes shaded under the black hat. 

Most besides myself are asleep, or some approximation thereof. Beneath us, American cities glimmer distantly under the clear night sky, like an ordered tapestry of gridded stars.

It's quiet, but for the rumble of the engines. No one beside me but the backpack of personal effects, a few concealed weapons.  _ Consuetudo altera natura est _ . 

The last time I would have been on a flight such as this would have been in disguise. Rose did occasionally make use of private flights, but traceability, plausible motive for travel were easier to hide than concealed movements. The absence of information is itself suspect. 

I wonder fleetingly again if I should have stretched those old muscles, painted my face and styled myself a stranger.  _ No dejes camino viejo por sendero nuevo _ . Part of me is afraid I will already appear as such, to Tuco. 

I check my watch. Still so many hours to keep watch. 

_ Bisogna accomodarsi ai tempi _ , it's not as if that will change when we touch down. Where Tuco lives is close to some old haunts of my former colleagues-- not so close as to be a reckless proposition, but the fact remains. 

At one point, when I called him  _ paraja, _ I bequeathed to Tuco more trust in his watchful eye than I'd offered to anyone. Selfish of me, given that he hardly knew how to receive it, then, barely believed the burden I'd left on his shoulders. 

But he still stayed, following that. 

Whether he's willing to now is another matter. Whether I'm willing to pass that burden back to him, trade self-sufficiency only to lose it to absence yet again -- 

_ It's difficult for you to trust someone, isn't it?  _

The thought comes in Alma's voice, though it was I who asked it of her. 

_ And why shouldn't it be?  _

Her response. Blondie, I admit, is to be held responsible for all manner of erosions to my trust. But her words still linger--

_ After all, I could leave you at any moment.  _

Reality, the realities of our former profession. The shadow that passes over me even now, leaving its marks under my eyes. I light my pipe, sensing the exhaustion settling deeper into my bones. 

_ That's not what trust is -- I know you wouldn't mean it, wouldn't mean to die. It’s something that might happen. Happens quite often, to those I’ve known.  _

It was a conversation in her kitchen, the creaky yellow cupboards and cool tile floor. I at thirteen years then. It was mere weeks after she'd left for a hit job, and told me she loved me, with all the matter-of-fact practicality of a mother to her son departing for school. 

And yet, she still watched me take the first bite of soup with the same carefulness as she always had, fingers poised with a weary tension always just below the surface. 

_ How can you love someone you don't trust?  _

_ Oh, now who's taken love to his philosophy books? _

_ I thought I understood them to be one and the same.  _

Love and trust. And yet -- for months, I cannot truly profess to have trusted Blondie. Perhaps even for years, since he left. 

_ If I love you, I will still love you if you kill me.  _

That was how she explained it, plain as day as she took a bite of the  _ salmorejo  _ I had labored over. I'd been so surprised, so indignant, I very nearly dropped my spoon. 

I thought I had understood.

_ If I killed you, I should not be worthy of any love you would offer. It's a poor thing, to give a love that would stand for such a thing.  _

I press my lips into my pipe, ever amused and slightly abashed at my haughtier, younger self. Glance a sweep down to the sleeping passengers. 

_ Is it? That’s a kind of love that's difficult to lose. _

She hesitated with her spoon then, the saddest hint of a smile on her cheeks. Sensing my misstep, I spoke quickly;

_ I don't want you to die.  _

Love, I wasn't at all certain I could name. That was the most I could give her with honesty. 

_ I don't think I want to die either, Angel Eyes. Not when you're getting to be so good at these soups. _

I blink in surprise, hearing that last phrase very nearly in Tuco's voice. And did Alma ever say quite that, for that matter? After so many years, the details are distant. I remember another moment, much hazier, when Alma mentioned the persistence of memory, did I ever show her that Dali painting?

In any case, fittingly, I remember not what she said that day, only that it was about both the slippage of remembrances and the way memories keep alive those who have gone, by any means. Death only being one of them. 

I straighten my back, and let my mind wander to thoughts of Tuco, all those ambrosial moments of languid and thorough pleasure. Details, the particulars of the careful way he began sitting on the velvet couch in my labyrinthine  _ hacienda _ , the guarded looks he used to hide behind cardsharp smiles. How long it took him to lose that tense tilt of his shoulders. How much faster that process was, when a replica of that same couch found its home in a Wisconsin gatehouse so many miles away. 

How we held each other then. I’d made myself half-forget. How much of that memory is there left to recover? 

_ Más vale pájaro en mano que cien volando.  _ I do only as I can, which is let those thoughts carry me through the night watch. 

By the time the plane touches down at  _ Internacional General Roberto Fierro Villalobos _ , my exhaustion has been replaced with a frenetic hum at the edges of my nerves. I almost don’t hear the request to remove my hat at the immigration desk, wondering if it will be crowded, difficult to find Tuco. Wondering if he’s in wait considering the selfsame questions. 

The air smells halfway familiar, which does little to keep me from looking over my shoulder. I roll up my shirt sleeves to mitigate the heat, just to the elbows . Any further would reveal the nasty scar on my left arm.

I spot him at a distance, Duluth slung over his shoulder packed as large as when we’d met. I’m still not entirely certain whether that’s to be taken as comfort or warning. 

The question, and damn near every other thought I had, is washed from my mind by the smile he has when he finally spots me. His forehead pinches with an uncertainty I know he has it in him to hide, should he choose. So there’s both comfort and warning there as well. 

“ _ Mierda _ ,” Tuco breathes quietly, then clears his throat, “I’d, um forgotten how tall you were.”

“I missed every detail of you -- forgotten, perhaps, only certain particulars,” my hand reaches instinctively for his-- I stop before he gets too close. Not before he misses the movement. 

“Huh...oh, well.” He jerks his head to the bright sunshine of the door, “Let’s get out of here.”

It is I that follows him, a more familiar gait than I would have given it credit for. The car he leads us out to is green, a little the worse for wear. Windows rolled shut, an old habit from so many years with a man who could steal such a vehicle in under three minutes?

But never mind. It's not for Blondie's sake that I'm here. Not even remotely. 

He unlocks the door, takes the driver's seat and gets adjusted while I busy myself with my luggage, my eyes scanning the horizon for anything untoward. A practicality and a distraction both-- I don't want to press him by giving in to my desire to drink in the sight of him after so many miles of empty desert. 

"Hey, Angel?" 

"Yes?" I turn to him then, catch his dark brown eyes.

" _ Te extrañé, _ " he starts the car, slips his hand on my knee as we drive out. 

I hold myself to that, left hand still gloved as I cover his with mine. 

_ " _ _ ¿Me hablarás de este lugar _ _? _ "

He grins, chatters easily in Spanish, a few English words thrown in. I can't myself be certain that his accent has shifted, but certainly there's no hesitation in conversing in his familial tongue. Myself, I'd hardly realized the small cracks of disrepair that had started to creep into my mentor's mother tongue-- he smooths them over with the ease of both a hustler and a partner. 

The craggy hills rise up above the lines of shops, the occasional skyscraper rising amidst the brickwork chapels of the downtown core. Tuco points out the one he frequents, a colonial Spanish Baroque cathedral. The twin bell-towers loom on either side, the stone-work in the center quite impressive. 

"I wasn't going to go, y'see, but it's so grand it seems a shame not to, and then a shame to as well. Pablo would be jealous. They do holiness very well there," he gestures with one hand as we pass it. 

"It looks very beautiful." 

"They have tourists there too, if you want to see it." 

"Yes-- tomorrow, perhaps?" 

"After mass, if you still want to." He turns down a tighter road, winding away from the contrived and well-cultivated trees of the city center, to homes with a few more vines and dust. Gates over painted stone, even the simpler ones their own form of ornate. Tuco pulls in the car to an alleyway in behind, where a few others are parked. 

"Back half of the house is mine-- it's not bad. There's good points about it, not the same as hom-- not the same as Wisconsin," he's hedging, by the back door, with the key. Almost nervous. 

"Would it reassure you to know that I was at least as anxious as this, when you'd come to the gatehouse?" 

He smiles almost sheepishly, "Heh. True. I haven't -- tried to please anyone here. It's just mine, barely." 

"All the more reason I'm eager to see it." 

He gets the door open, pulls me inside by a gloved hand and -- pushes me against the shut door, careful enough for me to move away, not so careful that the press of his lips to mine doesn't feel as a firebrand for all I've missed it. The shudder I feel is involuntary, almost embarrassingly so, as I hold him as close as I can reasonably manage, kiss him as if those months were a bad dream, rather than memory. 

I pull away for breath, tug off my right glove to bring my hand to his face. Stubble of -- it can't be more than a half a day, and those open eyes that I'd so often thought to myself I'd willingly drown in. He reciprocates, taking me in with what I fancy to be equal gratitude and fascination. 

"You look well. Are you?" 

"Yes! It's been good for me, all of it," he grins, almost shy, "Couldn't have guessed." 

"I couldn't be more glad," I mean it, down to the very core of me. 

"Eh, you look like you haven't slept in days," he teases his calloused fingertips under my eyes, but there's concern in it just the same. 

"That's a fair assessment," I'm not in the habit of lying to him, and I would be truly damned to choose to begin now. 

He frowns, "Things really that bad?" 

"No-- yes. Rather. They used to be." That's about as honest as I can manage.

He turns his gaze to the ground, but doesn’t move away, his warmth still "Not sure I-- want to know." 

"I'm not at all prepared to speak of it," I admit, squeezing his arm gently. Not with him. Not yet. 

"We don't need to talk now, not really," he murmurs in my ear, hot breath that should be tempting -- and yet. 

I pull back a moment, one hand on his arm, but letting my senses settle to where I am.  _ Amor con amor se paga.  _ The phrase echoes in my mind with a tune, an oddly bright memory in Alma's kitchen. 

I take in the house. Small and cramped, yet the above rafters have a charm that remind me of the gatehouse. Color, yes-- something very different from the muted and medieval green and mahogany of Wisconsin. Bright patterns and a line of tile on the wall, a small table in the corner, a door frame in the back room covered by a tie-dye curtain. 

"I still need to get a door for the bedroom, it was all splinters when I got the place, but the furniture was all right--" 

"It's lovely. More to the point, it so far seems difficult for anyone to get a shot on it from the street. The windows are well placed." 

"...maybe I thought of that too," he pulls me over to the bedroom, drawing the curtain to reveal the cheerily dressed mattress on the floor, the small window throwing light again-- at a safe height and angle, once I've examined it. 

“You do worry, don’t you?” he leans against the wall, watching me kneel to check the sightlines. 

"That, I’m afraid, is rather permanent. But I won't speak of the specifics if you find it upsetting." 

"Nah it's -- good to hear that you won't worry so much here." 

"I need rest," I say, apropos of any specifics or elegance to disguise the request. He turns his head a little quickly -- perhaps it comes off sharp. 

I compose myself, "What I'd most like -- is for you to join me in bed, for no pleasures beyond that of your company. I'm reaching past the point of usefulness, and what's more-- I've missed sleeping under your watch. So if you're amenable--" 

" _ Mierda,  _ I'd forgotten that I love that about you." 

"...making requests of you?" I ask, as he already tugs me down towards the soft surface of the mattress. 

"You want something, you ask for it," he says simply. Ah. Of course, that would seem like a blessing, given all the effort it took to coax open desire out of Blondie. He props the pillows up behind him, pulling me towards resting on his chest and lap. Just the same as memory -- though not quite, in the specifics. A warm dampness hanging in the air, the color on the ceiling before my eyes flutter shut. But these constants: his fingers, brushing softly on my temples, and the particular earthen smell of his skin. I hadn't forgotten that. 

"If I fall asleep, will you worry?" he murmurs after a few minutes. 

"I -- don't believe so," I could not express why, but I meant that. I feel him nod above me, settle deeper into the pillows. 

I'm just about conscious enough to catch what he says next, just before dream and memory become unintelligible. 

"God. Didn’t know I missed you this much, Angel." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Consuetudo altera natura est._ \- Old habits die hard. Latin. 
> 
> _No dejes camino viejo por sendero nuevo_ \- Don't leave an old path for a new one, colloquially, a sort of "stick to what you know. Spanish. 
> 
> _Bisogna accomodarsi ai tempi_ \- Gnaw the bone fallen to thy lot. Italian. 
> 
> (sidenote, I think it's cute that Angel is chattiest with the proverbs when he's like, a little bit anxious. Not TOO anxious, just a little.)
> 
>  _Amor con amor se paga_ \- Love is with love paid. Spanish. 
> 
> Hope you liked it <3 comments as always very welcome!


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